THE 


OST    RING 


AND    OTHER  POEMS 


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JNE   A.MASOM 


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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF  ^ 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/lostringOOmaso 


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^^  Of  PBWG^ 
^  FEB  14  1933  "^ 

THE  LOST  RINd%OG!()AL  8eH#"^ 
AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 


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CAROLINE   A.  MASON 


H^ITI/  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
CHARLES   G.  AMES 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

Clbe  iaiucrsiDe  ^9 res?,  CambriOge 

1891 


Copyright,  1891, 
By  CHARLES  MASON. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 


To  THE  Poets 11 

The  Lost  Ring 13 

The  Sailing  of  the  Ship 21 

DEK^^ER  Ressort 23 

The  King's  Quest 25 

St.  Valentine 26 

LoYE 27 

Two  Goals 28 

Waking 30 

En  Voyage 32 

We  Three 33 

Intluence 3i 

Not  Yet 35 

Question  ant)  Answer 36 

Who  can  outwit  his  Fate  ?         ....  37 

Dark  Hours 38 

OpTnnsT 40 

Caged 42 

Unattained 43 

Blossom  and  Fruit 45 

Peradventure 45 

Trans>iutation 47 

Child's  Play 48 

The  Solvent  of  Doubt 49 

Thought  ant)  Speech 59 

The  Cost 60 

Who  knows? 60 

An  Open  Secret 61 


IV  CONTENTS 

Compensation 61 

Be  like  the  Sun 62 

Waiting 62 

The  Four  Mottoes 63 

Le  Roi  est  Mort  !    Vive  le  Roi  !       ...  65 

A  Taxe  of  Two  Buckets 65 

An  Incident 66 

The  Dame  and  the  Critic 68 

A  Poem  of  Nature 73 

Nature  and  Poet 77 

January 81 

February 81 

March 82 

April 83 

I^lAY 83 

June 84 

July 85 

August 85 

September 86 

October 87 

November 87 

December 88 

Spring 89 

In  May 90 

A  Day  in  Summer 92 

In  Midsummer 93 

October  Ineffable 94 

Autumn 95 

In  Autumn 96 

October  Woods 98 

Summer  in  Winter 98 

Homesick 100 

The  Rain 101 

Buttercups 103 

What  the  Birds  say 104 

The  Chickadee's  Song 105 

To  a  Katydid 106 

Why  Cats  wash  after  Eating    .       .       .       .108 

Wonder-Land 108 


COXTEXTS  V 

My  Heritage 109 

Do  THEY  MISS  Me  at  H03IE  ?           .         .         .         .  115 

The  Good  Wife 116 

A  Mother's  Love 118 

Baby's  Wardrobe 119 

"  On-ly  Me  •' 121 

The  Child's  Last  Wish 121 

May  Drea3is 123 

Mabel's  Cttre 124 

A  Memory 125 

The  Reason 127 

Eequital 128 

Eecoxciliation 129 

In  Memoria3i 130 

The  Grate  by  the  Erxi>-E 131 

Aroma 132 

Dissolving  Views 133 

When  I  am  Old 134 

The  Sundial ISO 

A  Christ^l\s  Legend 137 

LENDER  A  Picture  of  "The  Magdalent:"         ,  141 

The  Outcast 141 

A3IIN,  the  Miser 143 

A  Voice  for  the  Poor 146 

A  Plea  for  the  Dumb 152 

Touch  not,  taste  not,  hajndle  not   .        .        .  154 

Against  Odds    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  155 

Single  Combat 156 

Tbust 157 

Perfect  through  Suffering       ....  158 

"  Perfect  Love  casteth  out  Fear  "         .        .  159 

"  He  giveth  to  his  Beloved  in  Sleep  ''  .        .  160 

"  Consider  the  Lilies  " 161 

Lord's  Day 163 

Matin  Hymn 164 

Eventide 165 

XO  XlGHT 166 

The  Etern-ax  Wisdom 168 

Martha  or  Mary  ? 169 


vi  CONTENTS 

Lost  and  Found ' .  170 

I  SAID 171 

The  Lost  Sheep 172 

Satisfied 173 

Hymn 174 

The  Retreat 175 

In  War  Time 176 

Th^  Will,  for  the  Deed 178 

After  a  Victory 179 

Poem  for  Decoration  Day 181 

Flowers  for  our  Dead 185 

Presideih?  Lincoln's  Grave         .       .       .       .186 

Charles  Sumner 187 

Channing 188 

To  Charles  Sumner 189 

The  Library 191 

FiTCHBURG 193 


INTRODUCTION 

This  little  volume  is  primarily  a  monument  to 
the  gifts  and  character  of  a  woman  whose  mem- 
bership in  the  guild  of  American  authors  has 
long  been  recognized.  It  contains  over  one  hun- 
dred poems,  selected  from  a  much  larger  num- 
ber, whose  production  extended  over  nearly  a  half 
century  of  her  quiet  life.  The  aim  of  the  com- 
pilation has  been  to  illustrate  the  scope  of  her 
mind,  heart,  and  poetic  genius,  —  to  show  the 
depth,  breadth,  and  quality  of  her  interest  in 
nature,  humanity,  and  the  divine  order  of  the 
world.  Her  lively  artistic  sense  was  exalted  by 
rare  spirituality  ;  her  apt  literary  faculty  was 
ever  the  servant  of  insight  and  experience  ;  her 
minstrelsy  was  but  the  voicing  of  her  aspiration 
and  her  love  for  the  true,  the  beautiful,  and  the 
good. 

So  far  as  the  material  permitted,  the  order  of 
arrangement  has  been  logical  rather  than  chrono- 
logical, that  the  wide  variety  of  subjects  and 
treatment  might  yet  yield  a  certain  unity  of  im- 
pression, suggestive  of  the  simplicity  and   con- 


Viii  ly  TR  OD  UC  TION 

sistency  of  the  character  here  imperfectly  re- 
flected. For  the  life  of  Mrs.  Mason  was  the 
noblest  of  her  poems. 

Seventy-two  pieces,  samples  of  her  earlier  work, 
published  in  1852,  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Utter- 
ance," though  well  received,  were  not  uniformly 
equal  in  sentiment,  substance,  or  execution  to  her 
maturer  productions ;  and  but  few  of  the  former 
are  here  included,  though  some  of  them  have  be- 
come popular  favorites.  "  Do  They  Miss  Me  at 
Home  ?  "  has  been  sung  by  thousands  of  English- 
speaking  people  who  never  knew  the  author's 
name.  With  the  deepening  of  her  own  life  her 
fingers  instinctively  sought  the  strings  of  the 
"  sacred  harp,"  and  several  of  her  devout  utter- 
ances have  been  incorporated  into  modern  hym- 
nology.  But  the  timbrel  served  for  lighter 
moods.  And  if,  amid  the  storm  and  stress  of 
war,  it  was  not  a  woman's  part  to  sound  the 
trumpet,  it  will  yet  be  seen  that  her  whole  soul 
responded,  in  the  name  of  Liberty  and  Union,  to 
the  nation's  passionate  struggle  for  life.  It  has 
been  said  that  she  had  "  a  rare  gift  for  meeting 
occasions  ;  "  and  her  latest  Fitchburg  pastor,  the 
Rev.  AV.  H.  Pierson,  thus  testifies :  "  She  was 
our  local  sibjd  and  seer,  and  when  a  word  of 
comfort,  hope,  or  gratulation  needed  to  be  spoken 
for  some  occasional  or  passing  event,  her  towns- 
people resorted  to  her  as  to  an  oracle,  and  were 
not  disappointed." 


INTROD  UCTION  ix 

Caroline  Atherton  (Briggs)  Mason  was  born 
in  Marblehead,  July  27,  1823.  Her  father  was 
Dr.  Calvin  Briggs,  a  graduate  of  Williams  Col- 
lege, and  an  eminent  physician  and  citizen.  Her 
mother,  Rebecca  (Monroe)  Briggs,  a  woman  of 
strong,  decided  character,  was  the  daughter  of 
Dr.  Ephraim  and  Mercy  (Atherton)  Monroe. 
Pr.  Monroe,  born  and  educated  in  Scotland,  was 
a  surgeon  in  the  military  service.  Her  paternal 
grandfather,  the  Rev.  James  Briggs,  was  a  grad- 
uate of  Yale  College,  and  for  forty-five  years  the 
minister  of  Cummington,  where  he  lived  to  the 
age  of  eighty ;  and  of  him  William  CuUen  Bry- 
ant, in  youth  his  parishioner,  wrote  the  poem, 
"  The  Old  Man's  Funeral." 

Mrs.  Mason  was  the  youngest  of  seven  sisters, 
all  of  whom  received  their  advanced  education  at 
Bradford  Academy,  where  they  used  sometimes 
to  be  spoken  of  as  "  the  Pleiades."  Harriet, 
older  by  but  twenty  months  than  Caroline,  and 
endeared  to  her  by  near  and  constant  companion- 
ship, became  the  wife  of  David  T.  Stoddard,  and 
accompanied  him  to  a  mission  field  among  the 
Nestorians,  where,  after  five  years  of  devoted 
service,  she  died  of  cholera  at  Trebizond,  and 
was  buried  on  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea.  The 
heart-cry  of  her  sister  in  America  is  heard  in  the 
poems  entitled  "  Aroma "  and  "  The  Grave  by 
the  Euxine." 


X  INTRODUCTION 

Soon  after  the  death  of  Dr.  Briggs,  in  1852, 
the  family  removed  to  Fitchburg,  where,  in 
August,  1853,  Caroline  was  married  to  Charles 
Mason,  a  lawyer  of  that  place,  who,  after  a  union 
of  thirty-seven  years,  survives  her,  with  their  one 
son,  a  physician  in  his  native  town.  Laurel  Hill, 
their  residence,  is  a  beautiful  and  retired  loca- 
tion, yet  near  the  city  and  overlooking  its  densely 
peopled  valley.     She  died  June  13,  1890. 

She  retained  unimpaired  through  life  the  rev- 
erence for  sacred  things  in  which  she  had  been 
educated  under  the  old-time  theology  of  New 
England ;  but  with  maturing  freedom  and  en- 
largement of  mind  and  heart  she  grew  into  a 
sunnier  faith  and  a  larger  hope ;  her  whole  na- 
ture yielded  to  the  demand  for  a  universe  of 
harmony ;  her  being  expanded  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  constant  presence  and  care  of  the  all- 
wise,  all-loving  Father,  and  in  the  light  of  the 
perfect  humanity  illustrated  in  the  spirit  and  life 
of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  —  an  expansion  which  not 
only  made  intolerance  impossible,  but  drew  her 
into  ready  sympathy  with  the  devout  and  faith- 
ful of  every  name. 

Charles  G.  Ames. 

June,  1891. 


TO   THE  POETS 

Reapers  in  God^s  great  field  of  Truth, 
I  would  come  after,  like  gentle  Ruth,  — 

Gleaning  of  that  ye  have  left  behind  ; 
Happy  my  simple  wealth  to  hind. 

If  ye  should  reckon  me  overbold. 
Standing  amid  your  sheaves  of  gold, 

Do  but  hearken  the  Master^ s  call,  — 
"  See,  my  reapers,  that  ye  let  fall, 

"  Out  of  the  plenty  in  my  land, 
Here  and  therefor  the  gleaner^ s  hand." 

So  I  follow  where  ye  have  trod, 
Reapers  who  reap  thejields  of  God. 


THE  LOST  RING 

"  The  blooms  of  May !  the  blooms  of  May ! 
The  apple-orchards  bright  and  gay  ! 
The  springing  grass,  the  charmed  air ! 

0  Earth,  but  thou  art  in  thy  prime, 
And  I  am  old  before  my  time. 

And  faded  ;  thou  art  young  and  fair." 

Thus  moaned  my  friend  to  me  one  day, 
Or  to  herself,  —  I  cannot  say. 

We  stood  beside  the  orchard  wall : 
A  look  of  care  was  on  her  face. 
But,  save  that  sign,  I  could  not  trace 

Time's  touch,  nor  wherefore  she  let  fall 

Such  mournful  words.     "  It  is  not  so," 

1  cried ;  "  this  witless  speech  forego  I 

'T  is  you  are  young  ;  the  earth  is  not,  — 
The  poor  old  Mother  !     What  you  see 
Of  bloom  and  beauty  is  not  she  : 

Her  years  are  manifold,  I  wot. 

"  Her  offspring  these,  —  this  grass  we  tread, 
These  bloomy  sweets  above  our  head  ; 


16  THE  LOST  RING 

"  And  death,  —  that,  too,  in  his  own  time, 
Is  good,  for  by  it  we  do  climb 

To  fuller  life ;  but,  to  forestall 
His  providence  and  court  the  fate 
His  higher  wisdom  bids  us  wait, 

'T  were  better  not  to  have  lived  at  all ! ' 

Thus  with  stern  love  that  did  not  dare 
To  shield  her  fault,  or  weakly  spare 

Her  weakness,  —  thus  I  answered  her. 
She  stood  with  downcast  eyes  a  space, 
Then  raised  to  mine  her  tear-wet  face, 

With  all  its  passionate  blood  astir. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  !     You  shall  know 
The  secret  grief  that  stabs  me  so : 

It  may  be  you  will  wonder  less 
At  those  wild,  wicked  words  I  spoke ; 
For,  darling,  when  the  heart  is  broke 

Who  heeds  its  ravings  of  distress  ? 

"  For  I  did  rave  :  it  would  be  hard, 
I  know,  to  lie  beneath  the  sward, 

And  I  so  young  in  years.     Ah,  well, 
The  world  is  very  fair  to  see,  — 
Or  was  ;  —  but  turn  your  eyes  from  me. 

And  listen  to  what  once  befell. 

"  The  blooms  of  May !  the  blooms  of  May ! 
One  long,  long  year  ago  to-day, 


THE  LOST  RING  17 

I  stood  beneath  this  very  tree : 
My  woman's  fate  was  in  my  hand ; 
Awhile  the  fluttering  thing  I  scanned, 

Then  Hghtly  let  it  go  from  me. 

"  What  trifles  vex  a  maiden's  mood, 
And  stir  the  currents  of  her  blood 

To  wild  revolt  and  wilful  ends  ! 
A  vain  caprice  ungratified, 
A  whim  defeated  or  defied,  — 

And  strangers  part,  who  met  as  friends. 

"  I  cannot  tell  if  it  were  pride 
Or  pique,  or  aught  to  each  allied. 

But  I  was  young  and  foolish  both. 
He  came,  for  he  had  seen  me  pass ; 
I  heard  his  footstep  in  the  grass. 

And  all  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth ! 

"  Sweet  bird-notes  rang  from  all  the  trees : 
I  heard  a  sweeter  tune  than  these 

In  every  step  as  on  he  came ; 
Soft-murmuring  bees  flew  in  and  out 
The  honeyed  apple-blooms  about : 

A  softer  murmur  fell,  —  my  name. 

"  But  ah,  methought  he  did  not  woo 
As  lovers  should,  as  lovers  do,  — 

With  sugared  speech  and  flattering  air  ; 
He  never  once  had  whispered  me 


18  THE  LOST  RING 

That  I  was  fair,  —  oh,  vanity !  — 

Nor  praised  my  lips  nor  praised  my  hair. 

"  And  yet  I  knew  —  But  why  essay 
With  loitering  words  my  tale  to  stay  ? 

Had  he  not  loved  me  long  and  well  ? 
Fool !  royal  plenty  at  my  side. 
Yet  choosing  husks,  and  satisfied 

To  drop  the  sweetness  for  the  shell ! 

"  As  near  he  drew,  a  bee,  half  strayed 
In  its  bewildered  circuit,  made 

An  instant's  lodgment  on  my  face : 
He  bent  and  brushed  it  from  my  cheek,  — 
Fair  chance  some  courtly  praise  to  speak, 
(I  thought,)  if  one  had  but  the  grace ! 

"  Comparisons  are  quick  to  come 
To  lovers'  lips,  but  liis  are  dumb. 

The  dolt !  no  image  to  descry, 
Nor  say,  '  Your  cheek  so  like  the  rose, 
What  wonder  that  the  poor  bee  knows 

No  better  ?     Who  can  blame  ?     Not  I !  * 

"  Instead,  *  The  blundering  thing ! '  he  cried. 

'  It  has  not  stung  you  ?  '     I  replied, 
*  And  if  it  had,  why  make  ado  ?  ' 

^  Because,'  he  answered,  '  it  were  much 
To  shield  you  from  each  harmful  touch. 
And  I  am  hurt  with  what  hurts  you.' 


TEE  LOST  RING  19 

"  Love's  own  response,  —  so  good,  so  kind  ! 
But  I  was  deaf,  but  I  was  blind. 

He  stood  one  moment  pondering, 
Then,  without  further  sign  or  look, 
Deftly  from  off  his  finger  took 

A  little  shining,  golden  ring. 

"  *It  was  my  mother's :  when  she  died, 
She  bade  me  keep  it  —  for  my  bride ; 

Her  gift,  she  said  '  (his  words  came  slow). 
'  O  Mabel,  may  she  give  it  you  ? 
I  love  you  well,  I  love  you  true ; 

You  '11  wear  it,  darling  ?     Tell  me  so.' 

"  What  ailed  me  ?     With  a  cruel  scorn, 
A  sudden  madness,  passion-born, 
I  dashed  his  pleading  hand  aside. 
'  I  do  not  love,  I  cannot  wed, 
And  so  I  will  not  mock  the  dead 
With  wearing  of  her  ring ! '  I  cried. 

"  And  as  I  purposed,  —  had  he  seen  ?  — 
The  ring  slid  down  among  the  green, 

Which  shrank,  as  loath  such  spoil  to  take ; 
And  while  I  looked,  each  grassy  blade 
Assumed  a  dagger's  point  and  made 

Mute  thrusts  at  me,  or  seemed  to  make. 

"  O  sacrilege  !  —  but  I  was  torn 
With  jealous  fears  :  could  I  have  borne 


20  THE  LOST  RING 

To  see  another  wear  the  ring  ? 

No  ;  lost  to  me,  there  let  it  lie, 

Though  every  careless  passer-by- 
Smote  with  rude  heel  the  hallowed  thing ! 

"  But  rallying,  '  Alas  for  man's 
Forecasting  !     Fate  forbids  the  banns, 
And,  certes,  she  is  right,'  I  said : 
*  Go,  sir  I  who  weds  with  me,  I  wis, 
Must  woo  in  other  guise  than  this : 
I  like  not  dealings  with  the  dead !  * 

"  He  answered  not ;  he  held  my  gaze 
One  moment  with  his  own,  —  amaze, 

Scorn,  pity,  anguish  in  his  look ; 
Then  turning,  left  me  to  the  fate 
Which  I  had  dared,  —  so  desolate, 

To  think  on  it  I  could  not  brook ! 

"  And  ever  since  that  fateful  morn 
Which  banned  me  with  his  pitying  scorn, 

Life  has  been  little  worth  to  me  ;  — 
If  that  he  life,  whose  every  breath 
Is  but  a  whispered  prayer  for  death, 

Careless  how  soon  the  end  may  be." 

She  bent  to  meet  my  mute  caress : 
"  Heaven  send  you  sweet  forgetf ulness," 

I  murmured.     "  That  were  doubtful  gain," 
She  cried  ;  "  but  would,  oh  brave  heart  lost ! 


THE  SAILING   OF  THE  SHIP  21 

Would  thou  couldst  know  the  bitter  cost, 
And  all  my  grief,  remorse,  and  pain  !  " 

A  footstep  on  the  other  side, 

Just  where  the  skirting  bushes  hide 

The  orchard  wall !     A  moment  more, 
And,  clearing  at  a  bound  the  space. 
He  stands  with  Mabel  face  to  face,  — 

The  lover  whom  her  thoughts  deplore  ! 

And  what  remains  to  tell  ?     I  turned 
And  left  them.     When  the  sunset  burned 

In  the  sweet  west,  we  saw  them  pass : 
I  looked  ,  a  ring  was  on  her  hand. 
The  same  —  but  you  will  understand  :  — 

It  was  not  lost  beneath  the  gi'ass ! 


THE   SAILING  OF  THE  SHIP 

We  stood  and  watched  it  from  the  shore ;  — 
How  shapely  't  was  !  how  proud  and  fair ! 

But  what  from  her  of  hope  it  bore. 
And  what  it  left  me  of  despair, 
To  think  on  it  I  do  not  dare. 

I  spoke  :  "  Some  lover's  signal  —  see  ! 
He  hails  you  from  the  ship,  Lisette." 

Her  proud  lip  curled.     "  "T  is  naught  to  me," 
She  said,  and  gayly  smiled  —  and  yet, 
Beshrew  me,  but  her  eyes  were  wet ! 


22  THE  SAILING   OF  THE   SHIP 

And  if  I  gazed  on  her  with  aught 
Of  Love's  concern  beneath  a  mien 

Too  careless  for  her  afterthought, 
My  reasons  were  my  own,  I  ween  ; 
What  need  by  her  to  be  foreseen  ? 

Oh,  sweet  Lisette  !  and  proud  as  sweet ! 
What  hindered  that  she  should  not  take 

Her  heart  and  show  it  me  ?  —  but  fleet 
The  ship  sped  on,  and  in  its  wake. 
What  hopes  lay  drowning  for  her  sake  ! 

For  oh,  I  loved  her  !     I  had  thought 
That  very  morn  to  tell  her  so ; 

But  Love,  with  doubt  already  fraught, 
Grows  to  Despair  as  doubts  do  grow ;  — 
And  did  she  love  him  ?  —  yes  or  no  ? 

The  wind  blew  roughly  out  to  sea  ; 

I  felt  her  shiver  as  we  stood  ; 

"  Only  soft  airs  should  circle  thee  !  " 

I  cried,  and  made  as  though  I  would 
Have  drawn  her  landward  an  I  could. 

She  shrank  away  :   "  I  like  it  best, 

This  fierce  north  breeze ;  I  do  not  care 

For  sunny  south  wind  or  for  west. 

And  I  can  bear  what  others  bear,"  — 
She  said,  and  smoothed  her  sea-blown  hair. 


DERNIER  RES  SORT  23 

I  saw  —  in  spite  of  her  —  I  saw 

Her  heart  had  gone  with  that  great  ship  ! 

Fierce  blew  the  north  wind,  j&erce  and  raw, 
I  looked  to  see  her  roses  slip, 
Congealed,  away  from  cheek  and  lip  ;  — 

They  freshened  with  the  fresh'ning  breeze  ; 
I  left  her  standing  by  the  sea. 

But  life  is  made  of  things  like  these  ;  — 
And  Life  and  Death  are  one  to  me. 
Since  that  great  ship  went  out  to  sea ! 


DERNIER   RESSORT 

"  When  the  winter  wooes  the  summer,  when  No- 
vember mates  with  May, 

When  my  dimples  match  your  wrinkles,  my 
brown  hair  your  locks  of  gray, 

Come  to  me  again  for  answer :  but  my  nay  shall 
still  be  nay. 

"  Pardon  words  that  sound  unseemly,  —  but  you 

will  not  understand 
Softer   speech."      She  would   have   passed  him, 

but  he  stayed  her  with  his  hand ; 
Plying   still,  with  love's  own  blindness,  all  the 

arts  at  love's  command  : 


24  DERNIER  RESSORT 

"  Hear  me  !     I  have  lands  and  titles  ;    an  mth 

me  you  cross  the  tide, 
Wealth  shall  wait  upon  your  bidding  ;  not  one 

wish  shall  be  denied  : 
None  would  know  the  peasant's  daughter  in  the 

Baron's  haughty  bride." 

"  Peace  !  "  she  cried.  "  If  I  should  wed  you, 
you  would  know  me  bought  with  gold  : 

Looking  for  all  gentle  passions,  —  wifely  love 
and  trust,  —  behold, 

Than  my  perjured  heart,  no  marble  more  insen- 
sate or  more  cold  ! 

"  I  should  pity  like  a  woman  ;  you  would  palter 

like  a  man  ; 
Both  would  rue  the  day,  heaven-blighted,  when 

the  wretched  farce  began  : 
And  for  me,  I  crave  a  blessing  on   my  bridal, 

not  a  han.'^ 

Pale  she  stood  amid  the  gloaming ;  all  the  glory 

of  her  eyes 
Quenched  in  tears  :  but  still  he  pleaded,  —  "  she 

was  foolish,  he  was  wise ; 
Love  would  come  at  love's  own  bidding,"  —  till, 

as  deer  to  covert  flies,  — 

Hard  beset  and  spent,  —  she  answered  (Oh,  her 
shame  was  fair  to  see  !), 


TEE  KING'S   QUEST  26 

"  Since   no   other    word   can    touch   you,  listen, 

then  ;  —  I  am  not  free  I 
Down  in  yonder  mossy  cottage   beats  a  manly 

heart  for  me. 

"  Oh,  his  eyes  are  blue  as  heaven  !  Oh,  his  locks 
are  like  the  sun  ! 

And  I  love  li'wi!  though  of  houses,  gold,  or  sil- 
ver, he  has  none ; 

I  have  promised  I  will  wed  him  when  the  har- 
vest work  is  done." 

Rosy  stood  she  in  the  gloaming  ;  and  a  certain 

queenly  grace, 
Born    of    maiden    truth,    and    fairer    than    the 

blushes  on  her  face, 
Sealed  the  "  No  "  she  gave  for  answer,  proudly 

turning  from  the  place. 


THE   KINGS   QUESTS 

The  King  rode  fast,  the  King  rode  far ; 
"  Now,  by  my  crown,"  quoth  he, 
"  If  I  in  all  the  land  shall  find 
A  maiden  of  contented  mind, 

Be  she  of  high  or  low  degree, 
By  Pagan  rite  or  Christian  signed. 
My  consort  she  shall  be." 

^  Recently  set  to  music  in  London,  by  an  English  com- 
poser. 


26  ST.  VALENTINE 

But  when  he  chanced  the  maid  to  meet, 

So  well  content  was  she, 
She  would  not  wed,  but,  deaf  and  blind, 
Went  on  her  way.     "  Alack,  I  find 

I  'm  caught  in  my  own  web,"  quoth  he ; 
"  This  maiden  of  contented  mind 

Is  too  content  for  me  !  " 


ST.   VALENTINE 

The  sleet  was  blowing :  where  was  any  sign 

Of  greening  valley,  call  of  mating  bird  ? 

Yet,  close  beside  my  ear,  a  voice  I  heard  — 
A  whisper  —  "  Sweet,   choose  now  your  valen- 
tine !  " 
"  Nay,  wait  till  skies  are  softer,  airs  more  fine." 

But  still,  impetuous,  fell  that  whispered  word, 

"  Choose,  choose  your  valentine  !  " 

What  was  it  stirred. 
Like  breath  of  June,  this  yielding  heart  of  mine  ? 

Sudden,  the  bleak  earth  blossomed  into  bowers 
Of  bridal  beauty :  for  its  wreathing  snows, 
Wide  banks  of  creamy  jessamine  and  rose,  — 

While  on  the  pane  bloomed  out  great  passion- 
flowers. 
And  I,  —  so  subtle-sweet  Love's  whispers  are  !  — 
Be  sure  for  choice  I  did  not  wander  far. 


LOVE  27 


LOVE 

I  DO  not  ask  it  thee  !     That  is  not  love 

Which  waits  to  be  entreated.     Love  is  free 

As  God's  own  life,  and  of  itself  doth  move. 

Should  I  say,  Love  me  ?     Rather  let  me  prove 
Myself  to  be  love-worthy :  then  let  be  ! 

And   yet   what   wretched   shams    our    sad   eyes 

see !  — 
"  I  love  my  Love  because  my  Love  loves  me  ;  "  — 

Oh,  pitiful !     Hast  thou  no  gauge  above 
Another's  thought  by  which  to  rate  thine  own  ? 
No  worthier  trust,  no  surer  corner-stone 
To  build  thy  temple  of  sweet  hopes  upon  ? 

God   help  thee    at   thy   need   and   give   thee 
strength 

To  bear  the  shock  of  trial  when  at  length 
Thine  hour  shall  write  thee  desolate,  undone. 

Sitting  in  this  sweet  stillness  all  alone, 
I  thank  ray  God  that  with  my  eyes  upon 
His  holy  stars,  I  can  say  reverently, 
"  I  love  my  Love  because  in  him  I  see 
Great  nobleness,  worthy  of  all  my  love, 
A  soul  all  meanness  and  all  feints  above  ; 
A  manly  front  that  dares  to  face  the  Right, 


28  TWO   GOALS 

That,  shouldering  Truth,  stands  ready  for  the 

fight, 
And  following  Duty,  walks  in  her  sweet  light." 

O  ye  glad  stars  that  overspread  the  night ! 
I  cannot  see  you  for  these  happy  tears. 
Yet  know  you  shining  still ;  so  Love  appears  : 
I  cannot  pierce  these  misty  human  years 

That  hide  God's  great  Hereafter,  yet  I  know 
My  love  still  shining  there  as  here  below, 
Only  with  purer,  more  ecstatic  glow. 
For  is  not  Love  immortal  ?     Stars  shall  fall, 
And  the  weird  music  of  the  jostling  spheres 
Crash  into  silence  !     Love,  supreme  o'er  all, 
Shall  throb  its  calm,  grand  paean  undismayed, 
By  nothing  daunted  and  of  nought  afraid, 
Though  old  worlds  crumble  or  though  new  be 
made. 


TWO  GOALS 

[at  twenty] 

To  let  my  high  ambitions  spoil 
That  should  to  noblest  uses  fit, 

To  stand  in  shade  and  serve  as  foil 
To  those  who  in  the  sunshine  sit,  — 

I  will  not  shape  my  destiny 

To  such  poor  issues  !  —  should  I  grow 


TWO   GOALS  29 

Downward,  like  roots,  and  thus  defy 
God's  purpose,  and  requite  Him  so  ? 

And  not  aspire  and  not  expand  ?  — 

O  Fame,  how  grand  thou  art,  and  sweet ! 

And  may  I  sit  at  thy  right  hand 
Or  serve,  rejoicing,  at  thy  feet  ? 

[at  fifty] 

I  thank  my  God  He  did  destroy 

The  dream  that  thralled  my  youtliful  soul 
To  give  me  more  divine  employ 

And  loftier  aim  and  worthier  goal ; 

To  show  me  how  Fame's  brightest  dream 
Grows  dim  beside  a  Purpose  high  ; 

(Who  heeds  the  rushlight's  flickering  beam 
When  God's  great  sun  is  in  the  sky  ?) 

To  teach  me  what  a  narrow  scope 

Is  his  who  looks  for  his  award 
To  earthly  praise,  beneath  the  cope. 

And  not  beyond,  where  dwells  the  Lord. 

And  though,  when  I  am  gone,  scant  dole 
May  fall  to  me  of  garnered  fame, 

If,  here  and  there,  some  quickened  soul 
With  tearful  gladness  name  my  name, 

Sapng,  '•  I  'm  worthier  for  some  line, 
Some  word  of  hers,"  it  shall  suffice  : 


>  WAKING 

It  shall  be  bread  to  me  and  wine 
And  cheer  me  even  in  Paradise ! 


WAKING 

I  HAVE  done  at  length  with  dreaming ; 

Henceforth,  O  thou  soul  of  mine, 
Thou  must  take  up  sword  and  bucklerj 

Waging  warfare  most  divine. 

Life  is  struggle,  combat,  victory ! 

Wherefore  have  I  slumbered  on 
With  my  forces  all  unmarshalled, 

With  my  weapons  all  undrawn  ? 

Oh,  how  many  a  glorious  record 
Had  the  angels  of  me  kept 

Had  I  done  instead  of  doubted, 
Had  I  warred  instead  of  wept ! 

But  begone,  regret,  bewailing ! 

Ye  but  weaken,  like  the  rest; 
I  have  tried  the  trusty  weapons 

Rusting  erst  within  my  breast, 

I  have  wakened  to  my  duty. 
To  a  knowledge  large  and  deep 

That  I  recked  not  of  aforetime, 
In  my  long,  inglorious  sleep. 


WAKING  31 

In  this  subtle  sense  of  being 

Newly  stirred  in  every  vein, 
I  can  feel  a  throb  electric,  — 

Pleasure  half  allied  to  pain. 

'T  is  so  sweet  and  yet  so  awful, 

So  bewildering,  yet  brave, 
To  be  king  in  every  conflict 

Where  before  I  crouched  a  slave ! 

'T  is  so  glorious  to  be  conscious 

Of  a  growing  power  within 
Stronger  than  the  rallying  forces 

Of  a  charged  and  marshalled  sin ! 

Never  in  those  old  romances 

Felt  I  half  the  thrill  of  life 
That  I  feel  within  me  stirring, 

Standing  in  this  place  of  strife. 

Oh,  those  olden  days  of  daUiance 
When  I  wantoned  with  my  fate ! 

When  I  trifled  with  a  knowledge 
That  had  well  nigh  come  too  late  t 

Yet,  my  soul,  look  not  behind  thee ; 

Thou  hast  work  to  do  at  last : 
Let  the  brave  deeds  of  the  present 

Overarch  the  crumbled  past. 


32  EN   VOYAGE 

Build  thy  great  aims  high  and  higher ; 

Build  them  on  the  conquered  sod 
Where  thy  weakness  fii'st  fell  bleeding, 

And  thy  first  prayer  rose  to  God. 


EN  VOYAGE 

Whichever  way  the  wind  doth  blow 
Some  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so ; 
Then  blow  it  east  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best. 

My  little  craft  sails  not  alone ; 

A  thousand  fleets  from  every  zone 

Are  out  upon  a  thousand  seas  ; 

And  what  for  me  were  favoring  breeze 

Might  dash  another,  with  the  shock 

Of  doom,  upon  some  hidden  rock. 

And  so  I  do  not  dare  to  pray 

For  winds  to  waft  me  on  my  way, 

But  leave  it  to  a  Higher  Will 

To  stay  or  speed  me  ;  trusting  still 

That  all  is  well,  and  sure  that  He 

Who  launched  my  bark  will  sail  with  me 

Through  storm  and  calm,  and  will  not  fail, 

Whatever  breezes  may  prevail, 

To  land  me,  every  peril  past. 

Within  His  sheltering  heaven  at  last. 


WE   THREE  33 

Then,  whatsoever  wind  doth  blow, 
My  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so ; 
And  blow  it  east  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best. 


WE  THREE 

A  QUIET  reach  of  upland  brown. 

Green  meadows  stretching  cool  between ; 

Below,  the  busy  little  town, 

Half  hidden  in  its  nest  of  green. 

Far  off,  an  aged  woodman,  gray 

With  years,  and  bent  with  toil  and  care ; 
His  locks,  uncovered  to  the  day. 

White-streaming  on  the  summer  air  ; 

And  near,  the  fall  of  little  feet. 
The  music  of  a  child's  glad  voice, 

A  ringing  gush  of  laughter  sweet. 
That  makes  the  very  hills  rejoice ! 

O  worn  old  man  !     O  laughing  child ! 

I  stand  a  link  between  ye  two  — 
A  quiet  woman,  thought-beguiled 

One  moment  by  the  sight  of  you. 

What  I  have  been,  what  I  shall  be. 
Is  mirrored  to  me  as  I  gaze ;  — 


34  INFL  UENCE 

My  happy  childhood's  spring-time  glee  ; 
The  coming  of  my  winter  days. 

Stream,  stream  your  white  locks  on  the  wind, 
And  bide,  old  man,  the  weary  end  : 

I  am  not  very  far  behind, 

And  I  shall  reach  you  soon,  old  friend ! 

And  chirp,  glad  child,  your  cheery  glee  ! 

In  heaven's  rejuvenating  clime 
We  shall  be  mated  yet,  —  we  three,  — 

In  youth's  serene,  perpetual  prime. 

So  it  doth  matter  little  now  ; 

Though,  to  my  mind,  best  off  is  he, 
The  ripest  on  Life's  fruited  bough,  — 

Best  off  and  happiest  of  the  three. 


INFLUENCE 

Idling  upon  the  pebbly  beach, 

I  cast  a  stone  the  blue  waves  o'er ; 

The  widening  circles  mock  my  reach 
And  tremble  to  the  farthest  shore ! 

An  arrow  on  its  silent  course 

Cleaves  the  blue  air  with  quivering  speed  ; 
And,  drawn  by  stern  attraction's  force, 

The  strong  globe  feels  the  noiseless  deed. 


NOT    YET  35 

Forbear,  then,  man  !  —  The  impious  word 
That  poisons  those  poor  lips  of  clay, 

Through  all  the  centuries  shall  be  heard 
And  sound  beyond  the  latest  day. 

Courage,  faint  soul !  thine  earnest  thought 
Shall  yet  attest  its  heavenly  birth  ; 

Till,  to  a  strong  completeness  wrought, 
It  moves  and  draws  the  solid  earth. 


NOT  YET 

Not  yet !     Along  the  purpling  sky 

"We  see  the  dawning  ray  ; 
But  leagues  of  cloudy  distance  lie 

Between  us  and  the  day. 

Not  yet !     The  aloe  waits  serene 
Its  promised  advent-hour,  — 

A  patient  century  of  green 
To  one  full,  perfect  flower. 

Not  yet !     No  harvest  song  is  sung 

In  the  sweet  ear  of  spring. 
Nor  hear  we  while  the  blade  is  young 

The  reaper's  sickle  swing. 

Not  yet !     Before  the  crown,  the  cross  ; 
The  struggle,  ere  the  prize  ; 


36  QUESTION  AND  ANSWER 

Before  the  gain  the  fearful  loss, 
And  death  ere  Paradise  ! 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER 


When  I  consider  all  our  scheming  ways, 
The  unavailing  care  and  skill  man  spends. 
And  ceaseless  labor,  reaching  after  ends 

He  fails  in  compassing ;  then,  turning,  gaze 

On   Nature,  —  see  how  through   long,  noiseless 
days 
And  silent  nights,  her  quiet  way  she  wends. 
Sure  of  the  goal  to  which  her  purpose  tends. 

Since  every  force  her  own  mute  force  obeys,  — 
My  heart  grows  restive,  questioning  why  we 

Thus  baffled  are,  while  Nature  has  her  will ; 

We,  sentient,   wise,  —  she,  groping,  blind,   and 
still. 
The  sphinx-like  problem  plagues  me !     Can  it 

be 
That  were  we  groping,  blind,  even  as  she, 

Fate,  of  itself,  would  our  designs  fulfil  ? 

n. 

Then  Reason  answers  me :  "  O  heart,  forego 
Such  graceless,  vain  deduction  !     Otherwhere 
Solution  lies.     '  Man  sows  in  toil  and  care,' 

Thou  say  est,  '  reaping  failure.'     Is  it  so  ? 


WEO   CAN  OUTWIT  HIS -FATE?  37 

Then  must  it  be  that  what  he  fain  would  grow 
Were,  on  the  whole,  not  best,  and  would  not 

square 
With    God's    designings.      Nature    does   not 
share 
Our  mutinies  :  she  is  at  one,  we  know, 

With    Him    who    fashioned    her.       Willing, 
though  blind. 
Obedient,  though  mute,  she  gropes  her  way 
To  surest  issues.     This,  then,  we  may  say, 

That  were  we  more  at  one  with  God's  great 

mind, 
Life  to  our  wishes  would  be  oftener  kind, 
Nor  human  schemes  so  often  go  astray." 


WHO  CAN  OUTWIT  HIS   FATE? 

Who  can  outwit  his  fate  ?     There  was  a  king 
To  whom  the  Oracle  revealed  a  thing 
Of  solemn  import :  "  Know,"  it  said,  "that  thou. 
Great  king,  to  death's  all  potent  spell  shalt  bow 
In  twelve  short  years."     The  monarch  bent  his 

head 
In  reverent  wise :    '^  The    gods   know  best,"  he 

said : 
But  to  himself  he  muttered,  "  Since  't  is  so, 
I  '11  crowd  the  fleeting  moments  as  they  go 
With  twice  their  fill  of  pleasure ;  and  so  pour 
Into  twelve  years  the  bliss  of  twenty-four." 


38  DARK  HOURS 

He  got  him  servants ;  got  him  gold  and  gear ; 
Loaded  his  groaning  tables  with  good  cheer ; 
Drank  wine  by  flagons ;  gave  himself  no  rest 
Pursuing  pleasures  ;  when  one  lost  its  zest, 
Turned  to  another ;  changed  night  into  day 
With  grand  illuminations  ;  left  no  way 
Unsought,  untried,  whereby  to  tax  his  powers 
Twofold,  and  conjure  from  the  sated  hours 
A  double  tribute. 

Thus  six  years  went  by ; 
Then  spoke  his  Fate :   "  How  couldst  thou  hope 

to  fly 
My  fiat  ?     Who  would  cope  with  gods  must  be 
Himself  immortal :  bow  to  destiny  ! 
Thy  twelve  years  are  accomplished." 

That  same  night 
The  stricken  king  lay  shrouded,  cold,  and  white; 
And    they  who  robed  him  spoke  whereof  they 

knew : 
"  Who  flies  his  fate,  but  dares  it  to  pursue ; 
And,  score  who  may,  the  unerring   gods  count 

true !  " 


DARK   HOURS 

Oh,  my  tried  soul,  be  patient !     Roughest  rinds 
Fold  over  sweetest  fruitage ;  heaviest  clouds 
Rain  the  most  ample  harvests  on  the  fields ; 
The  grass  grows  greenest  where  the  wintry  snows 


DARK  HOURS  39 

Have  fallen  deepest,  and  the  fairest  flowers 
Spring  from  old,  dead  decay.     The  darkest  mine 
Yields  the  most  flashing  jewels  from  its  cell, 
And  stars  are  born  of  darkness,  day  of  night. 
Oh,  my  tried  soul,  be  patient !     Yet  for  thee 
Goes  on  the  secret  alchemy  of  life ; 
God,  the  One-Giver,  grants  no  boon  to  earth 
That  He  withholds  from  thee  ;  and  from  the  dark 
Of  thy  deep  sorrow  shall  arise  new  light. 
New  strength  to  do  and  suffer,  new  resolves, 
Perchance  new  gladnesses  and  freshest  hopes ! 
Oh,  there  are  times  when  I  can  no  more  weep 
That  I  have  suffered,  for  I  know  great  strength 
Is  born  of  suffering ;  and  I  trust  that  still, 
AVrapt  in  the  dry  husk  of  my  outer  life, 
Lie  warmer  seeds  than  ever  yet  have  burst 
From  its  dull  covering  ;  stronger  purposes 
Stir  consciously  within,  and  make  me  great 
With  a  new  life  —  a  life  akin  to  God's  — 
Which  I  must  nurture  for  the  holy  skies. 
Help  me  !  thou  great  All-Patient !  for  the  flesh 
Will  sometimes  falter,  and  the  spirit  fail ; 
Add  to  my  human  thy  divinest  strength. 
When  next  I  waver ;  rouse  my  faith  as  now, 
That  out  of  darkness  I  may  see  great  light. 
And  follow  where  it  ever  leads  —  to  thee  ! 


40  OPTIMIST 


OPTIMIST 

A  PERFECT  God,  he  must  have  planned 

A  perfect  scheme  :  his  wisdom  scanned 

His  embryo  world  ;  his  forming  thought 

Outran  the  centuries  as  He  wrought. 

He  gauged  it  all,  —  each  seeming  flaw,  — 

The  dreadful  fact  of  sin  ;  the  law 

Of  sad  heredity,  whereby 

The  innocent  for  the  guilty  die ; 

Truth's  birth- throes  ;  martyr-stings  and  pains ; 

A  dusky  continent  in  chains. 

He  gauged  it  all :  He  saw  that  wrong 

Would  often  win  ;  He  knew  the  strong 

Would  hurt  the  weak,  and  honest  worth 

Become  sweet  food  for  knaves ;  that  dearth 

Would  blight  the  land,  swift  lightnings  mar,. 

And  great  floods  whelm  it :  schism  and  war 

Keep  bloody  carnival  above 

His  slaughtered  laws  of  truth  and  love ; 

That  sickness  with  its  legion  brood  — 

Rheums,  fevers,  palsies,  taints  of  blood  — 

Would  plague  the  race.     Ah,  wherefore,  then, 

Project  a  world  of  suffering  men  ? 

Why  stayed  He  not  his  forming  hand  ? 

Why  issued  He  that  dread  command, 

That  awful  fiat,  "  Let  there  be  "  ? 

Oh,  graceless,  vain  philosophy. 

That  seeks  with  finite  grasp  to  span 


OPTIMIST  41 

The  boundaries  of  infinite  plan  ! 
Enough  for  our  imperfect  thought 
That  perfect  Love  and  Wisdom  wrought ; 
That  not  one  atom  of  the  whole 
Stupendous  scheme  but  has  for  goal 
A  gracious  outcome,  hidden,  sealed 
Perhaps,  but  sure  to  be  revealed ; 
That  sin  and  suffering  have  their  place 
In  God's  economy  of  grace. 
Ay,  sin !  we  know  not  why  or  how  ; 
But,  since  his  wisdom  could  allow 
This  alien  offshoot  on  the  tree 
Of  healthy  being,  who  are  we 
To  hurl  thereat  our  puny  doubt. 
And  murmur,  "  It  were  best  left  out "  ? 
Nay,  cavil  ye  who  will  or  can  : 
"  Let  God  be  true  and  every  man 
A  liar,"  —  is  there  other  creed 
Can  serve  us  at  our  du-est  need  ? 

Thus  far  our  quest,  if  that  be  quest 

Which  ends  where  it  began.     At  best, 

We  travel  in  a  circle  when 

We  scan  God's  wondrous  ways  with  men. 

Still,  still  we  find  his  boundless  love 

The  pivot  on  which  all  things  move. 

Still,  focus  and  circumference 

Are  radiating  centres  whence 

All  good  evolves,  —  and  evil  still 

But  the  blind  agent  of  his  will. 


42  CAGED 

All  glory,  then,  to  Him  who  knew 
Whereof  he  wrought.     All  glory,  too, 
To  that  transmuting  power  which  brings 
Such  sweetness  from  such  bitter  things,  — 
Good  still  from  evil,  bliss  from  bane ; 
From  weakness,  strength ;  from  losses,  gain. 
All  glory  !     Let  the  stars  outpour 
Their  praiseful  song  as  once  before, 
When,  at  the  first,  creation  stood 
Complete,  and  God  pronounced  it  good.       \ 
All  glory  !     Let  the  sons  of  God 
Still  shout  for  joy,  and  tell  abroad 
Their  gladness  from  each  heavenly  hill, 
"  All,  all  is  good  !  "  proclaiming  still. 


CAGED 

Poor  prisoned  bird,  that  sings  and  sings, 
Unconscious  of  the  gift  of  wings  ; 
Or,  knowing  it,  content  to  be 
Shorn  of  its  birthright  liberty  ! 

Like  souls  —  a  sadder  thrall  who  bear, 
Or  wittingly  or  unaware  — 
Consenting  to  their  prison  bars. 
When,  haply,  they  might  pierce  the  stars. 

Oh,  I  would  rather  be  the  clod 

That  knows  not,  cannot  know,  of  God, 


UNATTAINED  43 

Than  thus,  in  sluggish  wise,  deny 
My  title  to  his  open  sky ! 

He  gave  us  wings  ;  He  must  have  meant, 

Thereby,  a  noble  discontent 

To  teach  us,  that  we  might  essay 

To  break  each  bond  and  soar  away. 

What  is  the  cage  wliich  shuts  us  in, 
But  our  own  sloth  ?  but  our  own  sin  ? 
All  outward  limitations  are 
But  cobwebs  to  such  bolt  and  bar. 

For  me,  no  idle  lance  I  tilt 
Against  my  lot :  mine  all  the  guilt ; 
I  am  my  own  most  bitter  foe  — 
Ah,  this  it  is  which  irks  me  so  ! 

If  from  myself  I  could  set  free 
Myself !     At  odds  I  still  must  be 
Till  my  victorious  wings  shall  rise, 
Unclogged,  and  sweep  the  farthest  skies. 


UNATTAINED 


Oh,  fair  ideals  of  those  far-off  days. 
When   life    was   promise,  —  in    what    mournful 
guise 


44  UNATTAINED 

They  front  us  now !     We  meant  to  be  so  wise, 
So  good,  so  great !     What  eager,  brave  essays 
To  lift  our  lives  above  the  common  ways 
And  make  them  prodigal  of  all  that  lies 
In  noble,  full  achievement !     Still  the  prize 
Receded  ever,  ever,  and  the  praise 
Rang  hollow.     Ah,  how  impotent  appears 
Human  ambition,  since,  who  most  attains, 
Misses  the  goal.     From  every  height  he  gains, 
Ever  a  loftier  its  crest  uprears  ; 
While,  still,  the  unattainable  remains, 
A  baffling  dream  to  vex  his  human  years. 

n. 

Before  a  picture,  fruit  of  his  young  skill. 
Stood  an  old  painter,  lost  in  absent  thought. 
Till,  as  the  saddening  spell  within  him  wrought, 
"  Alas,"  he  cried,  "  that  Age  cannot  fulfil 
What  Youth  did  prophesy,  that  yet  so  ill 
Performance   waits    on    Promise !  "      He    had 

sought  — 
Ay,  and  had  found  it,  —  fame  by  genius  bought 
And  high  endeavor.     Whispers  which  distil 
That  subtle,  sweet  elixir  men  call  praise, 
Had  been  his  daily  dole  from  bearded  lip 
And  mouth  of  beauty  :  he  had  dared  to  sip 
The  siren  draught.     Was  this  the  end,  to  gaze 
On  the  bright  promise  of  his  youth,  as  yet 
But  half  redeemed,  and  life's  sun  nearly  set  ? 


PERAD  VENTURE  45 


BLOSSOM  AND   FRUIT 

"  He  who  would  write  heroic  poems  must  make  his  whole  life  a 
heroic  poem. ' '  —  Milton. 

Ah,  did  we  live  the  poems  that  we  write, 

T\^iat  heroes,  saints,  a  wondering  world  would 

see! 
And  how,  for  every  poet,  there  would  be 

A  spirit  clad  in  panoply  of  hght,  — 

Courageous,  calm,  divining  Truth  at  sight. 
To  follow  her,  come  rout  or  victory ! 
And  such  there   are   whose   lives   and    songs 
agree  : 

Like    tropic    growths   where   flower    and   fruit 
unite, 
On  the  same  bough,  to  sweeten  all  the  au% 
O,  poets  I  let  your  fruited  deeds  be  fair 

As  are  your  blossoming  words ;  for,  thus  allied. 

Each  of  the  other  shall  be  justified  ; 

And  he  is  greatest  who  does  best  rehearse 
In  his  own  life  the  greatness  of  his  verse. 


PERADVENTURE 

The  lightning  came  with  fierce  and  fiery  breath 
And  swept  a  human  soul  to  instant  death. 


46  PERADVENTURE 

But  all  the  air,  so  fever-charged  before, 
After   the    storm   grew   sweet  with  health  once 
more. 

And  men  reecho  that  old-time  refrain, 

"  Thus  good  with  evil  mingles  —  loss  with  gain." 

How  do  we  know  what  evil  is,  or  good  ?  — 
What,  loss  or  gain  ?     Ah,  if  we  understood, 

Should  we  thus  scan  God's  deep  but  perfect  way, 
Singing,  perchance.  His  goodness  all  astray  — 

In  harsh  discordance  with  that  praiseful  hymn 
Struck  from  the  lyres  of  His  own  cherubim  ? 

Love  writes  the  tune  —  and  death,  as  life,  must  be 
A  fitting  chord  in  the  vast  harmony. 

And  through  the  rhythmic  maze  I  seem  to  hear 
This  word,  deferring  to  our  human  fear :  — 

"Be  of  good  heart,  O  ye  of  little  faith ! 
For  that  which  men  call  dying  is  not  death. 

"  What  if  that  life  ye  mourn  as  passed  away. 
Has  but  emerged  from  darkness  into  day  ? 

"  What  if  that  other  sphere  it  sprang  to  reach. 
Were  fair  beyond  the  praise  of  human  speech  ? 


TRANS  M  UTA  TION  47 

"  What  if,  between  the  two  —  you  who  remain 
And    him   who   Avent,  —  his   were   the   greater 
gain?" 


TRANSMUTATION 

Rose  !  from  the  gross  earth  drawing  up 
Wherewith  to  fill  your  scented  cup, 
Your  secret  tell,  that  our  emprise 
May  be  as  wise. 

Lihes  !  that  from  such  noisome  pools 
Distil  such  sweets,  expound  your  rules ; 
That  we  the  gracious  hint  may  share, 
And  grow  as  fair  :  — 

We,  formed  for  noblest  ends,  who  yet 
Our  high  prerogative  forget, 
Letting  our  earthliness  prevent 
The  purpose  meant. 

For  the  same  fair  design  that  shows 
Supreme  in  lily  and  in  rose, 
Whereby  they  draw  from  vilest  springs 
Divinest  things. 

Rules,  too,  for  us,  save  that  we  spurn 
The  high  intent  and  fail  to  learn 
The  wholesome  secret,  fail  to  see 
Our  destiny. 


48  CHILD'S  PLAY 

Oh,  to  be  wise  and  wisely  use 
Life's  frets  and  hindrances !  to  choose 
The  good  they  yield,  —  nay,  make  the  ill 
Subservient  still !  — 

Wresting  from  loss  supremest  gain. 
Triumph  from  failure,  bliss  from  bane,  — 
As  rose  and  lily  charms  unfold 
From  mire  and  mould. 


CHILD'S   PLAY 

Where  thick  the  dandelions  lie. 

Like  coins  of  gold  among  the  grass, 

I  watch  the  children  flitting  by. 

Plucking  the  blossoms  as  they  pass  ;  — 

Their  hands  as  full  as  they  can  hold, 
Yet  still  on  further  conquest  bent ; 

At  every  footstep  clutching  gold 

Might  make  a  miser's  heart  content ! 

And  watching  them,  I  muse  and  muse, 
The  while  my  thoughts  outrun  my  theme ; 

Till  Life  and  child's  play  interfuse, 
And  hold  me,  waking,  in  a  dream :  — 

A  dream  whereof  the  burden  reads 

Like  this :  "  God  made  my  hand  but  small, 


THE  SOLVENT  OF  DOUBT  49 

And  earth  is  larger  than  my  needs  ; 


?" 


Why  should  I  seek  to  grasp  it  all : 


THE   SOLVENT   OF   DOUBT 

Idling  beside  a  mountain  stream 

That  plashed  and  broke  in  endless  play, 
We  sat  and  watched  the  dying  day 

What  time  the  sun,  vnih.  level  beam, 

In  regal  pomp  sank  westering, 

While  round  him  courtier-clouds  did  wait, 
Ambitious  for  his  royal  state,  — 

That  he  should  die  as  dies  a  king. 

And  we  sat  on ;  the  rest  had  gTown 
Impatient  of  our  lengthened  talk,  — 
"  And  would  we  join  them  in  their  walk 

And  let  such  wizard  themes  alone  ?  " 

"  Nay,  madcaps,"  I  had  answered,  "  lest 
We  take  om'  wisdom  too,  and  so 
Your  folly  shame  ;  but  do  you  go, 
And  leave  us  here  to  dream  and  rest." 

We  sat  entranced,  my  friend  and  I, 
She  with  a  sweet,  unwonted  grace, 
A  charm,  new  kindled  in  her  face  ; 

I  shrank  to  question  whence  or  why. 


50  TEE  SOLVENT  OF  DOUBT 

The  perfect  air  that  round  us  curled 

Faint  bird-notes  brought  us,  now  and  then, 
Some  thrush,  belated  in  the  glen, 

Crooning  his  trouble  to  the  world. 

Then  silence  fell.     She  raised  her  head, 
"  I  think  the  earth  has  fairer  grown 
These  two  weeks  gone  ;  we  are  alone, 

And  may  I  tell  you  why  ?  "  she  said ; 

Nor  paused  for  any  answer,  save 
A  pressure  of  my  clasping  hand, 
A  look  half  plea  and  half  command. 

As  I  might  be  her  lord  or  slave. 

"  And  yet  not  much  have  I  to  tell," 

Her  words  ran  on,  —  "  although  it  be 
As  I  have  said,  —  the  world  to  me 
Has  fairer  grown  since  it  befell. 

"  It  happened  this  wise  :  sick  and  faint 
With  city  smoke  and  dust  and  heat, 
I  wandered  out  where  two  ways  meet,  — 
That,  leading  backward  to  the  taint 

"  And  grime  of  city  walls,  and  this, 

Sweet  with  the  telltale  breath  of  woods 
Whose  infinite,  deep  solitudes 
Gave  hint  of  quiet  ministries,  — 


THE  SOLVENT  OF  DOUBT  51 

"  Such  tendance  as  the  soul  bespeaks, 
Grown  weary  in  the  treadmill  round 
Of  social  cares  and  frets  that  bound 
The  limits  of  the  tiresome  weeks. 

*'  And  yet  not  such  my  mental  ail, 

But,  rather.  Doubt,  —  that  would  not  cease, 
But  poisoned  all  my  happy  ease 
With  subtle  questions  that  assail 

"  One's  faith,  so  long  unchallenged,  — 
The  faith  that  simple  childhood  keeps 
Before  into  its  Eden  creeps 
The  wily  whisper,  '  Hath  God  said  ?  ' 

"  And  most  this  problem  plagued  my  soul,  — 
*  Is  Christ  divided  ?  —  for  they  rend, 
And  fashion  to  ignoble  end 
His  seamless  robe  that  should  be  whole.' 

"  Thus  questioning,  my  faith  astray. 

Distraught  by  doubtful,  differing  creeds, 
And  neither  answering  to  my  needs. 
What  marvel  that  I  lost  my  way  ? 

"  Who  knows  his  danger  ?     I  but  knew 
That  I  was  weak  as  any  child, 
And  tired  of  wandering  in  the  wild. 
Still  searching  for  some  hidden  clue,  — 


52  THE   SOLVENT   OF  DOUBT 

*'  Something  wherewith  to  answer  Doubt, 
And  put  the  dusky  fiend  to  flight, 
That,  hat-hke,  hates  the  happy  light, 
And  fain  would  put  Truth's  candle  out. 

"  The  tranced  woods  wove  their  deepest  spells 
That  August  afternoon,  I  ween ; 
In  measured  pauses,  far  between, 
I  heard  the  distant  city  bells 

"  Throb  out  the  hours,  but  heeded  not 
The  lapse  of  time,  so  lost  was  I ; 
What  was  the  charm  of  earth  and  sky 
To  me  ?  —  their  marvellous  sweetness,  what  ? 

"•  So  lost  was  I !     The  woodpecker 
Beat  his  monotonous,  low  drum. 
The  insects  drawled  their  lazy  hum, 
The  crickets  chirped ;  I  did  not  stir. 

"  The  crickets  chirped  beneath  my  feet, 
And  far  away  I  heard  the  moan 
Of  waves,  the  tender  undertone 
Of  tidal  waters,  distant,  sweet. 

*'  The  brooding  Presence  of  the  wood 
Did  on  me  her  soft  finger  lay, 
Till  'neath  the  touch  my  soul  gave  way 
And  lapsed  into  a  calmer  mood. 


THE  SOLVENT   OF  DOUBT  53 

"  *  O  rest !  O  peace  !  here  let  me  sit 

And  dream  my  life  away  ! '  I  cried  ; 
'  But  wherefore  ?  '  straight  a  voice  replied. 
'  Life  was  not  given  to  squander  it.' 

"  With  that,  I  started  up,  intent 

On  flight ;  but  truly  need  was  none, 
So  gracious  was  the  manly  tone, 
So  kind  the  look  that  on  me  bent. 

"  And,  once  assured,  I  could  recall 

To  whom  the  kindly  voice  belonged  ; 
For  I  had  heard  it  where  the  thronged 
Charmed  people  listened  in  the  hall 

"  To  cadenced  measures  fitly  wed 
To  looks  that  were  all  eloquence. 
And  scarcely  needed  the  pretence 
Of  speech,  to  be  interpreted. 

"  So,  yielding  without  more  ado 

To  what  I  deemed  a  happy  chance, 
I  took  my  cue  from  circumstance 
And  answered  lightly,  '  Even  so  ; 

"  '  And  yet,  sir,  you,  methinks,  of  all. 

More  gracious  judgment  should  allow. 
Men  name  you  Dreamer ;  read  me  now 
The  riddle  your  own  lips  let  fall :  — 


64  THE  SOLVENT  OF  DOUBT 

*'  ^  Are  dreams  the  chaff  that  idlers  grow? 
And  do  they  squander  Hfe  who  dream  ? 
Nay  ;  who  but  looks  on  you  must  deem 
The  verdict  false,  and  answer,  "  No." 

"  '  But  for  myself  I  cannot  tell, 

My  dreams  are  little  worth,  in  truth, 
And  mock  me  with  a  bitter  ruth 
When  I  do  wake  and  break  the  spell.' 

*'  I  paused,  —  alarmed  that  I  had  dared 
So  much,  and  fearing  he  might  take 
My  candor  wrong  and  might  not  make 
Excuse  for  thoughts  so  lightly  shared. 


(( ( 


Ah,  could  he  look  within,'  I  sighed, 
'  And  see  the  trouble  in  my  breast, 
The  heavy  thoughts  that  will  not  rest, 
The  doubts,  the  void  unsatisfied !  ' 

"  And  still  the  happy  insects  sang 

Above  my  head,  and  still  the  whir 
Of  crickets  in  the  gi'ass  astir 
Beneath  my  feet  melodious  rang ; 

"  And  still  the  muffled  undertone 
Of  tidal  waters  smote  the  ear ; 
But  I  was  deaf.     I  did  not  hear 
Or  hum  or  chirp  or  deep  sea-moan. 


TEE  SOLVENT  OF  DOUBT  55 

''  He  read  my  trouble  in  my  face, 
And  deftly,  as  a  father  might, 
Interpreted  the  cause  aright,  — 
Or  so  I  guessed,  —  though  for  a  space, 

"  He  talked  of  other  things,  —  the  skies. 

The  changing  clouds,  blind  Nature's  laws, 
Obedient  to  the  primal  Cause, 
The  first  great  Soul  that  underlies 

"  And  governs  all :  anon  he  spoke 

On  themes  less  alien,  —  how  God's  plan 
All  culminated  in  the  man 
Christ  Jesus  ;  then  my  soul  awoke  ! 

"  '  What  think  you  of  the  Christ  ?  '  I  said, 
My  courage  rising  with  my  need  ; 
'  I  've  searched  for  Him  in  sect  and  creed. 
And  find  Him  not  alive,  but  dead. 

*'  *  And  yet  I  clasp  this  shadow  dim. 
This  dead  Christ,  to  my  living  soul. 
Still  asking,  TTho  for  me  shall  roll 
The  stone  away  that  covers  Him  ? 

"  *  He  is  arisen,  the  priests  reply. 

Then  straight  dispute  above  the  sign,  — 
The  sacramental  bread  and  wine. 
Till,  Your  Christ  is  not  God's  !  I  cry. 


56  THE  SOLVENT   OF  DOUBT 

** '  And  so  He  is  not  what  I  need  : 

The  Christ  I  seek  must  come  to  me, 
(Or  I  to  Him,  whiche'er  it  be), 
Unclaimed  of  any  wrangling  creed. 

*' '  Sweeter  than  psalm  or  liturgy 
The  music  of  His  solemn  voice, 
If  one  could  hear  it  for  the  noise 
Of  all  the  sects  that  disagree,  — 

*^ '  The  carping  wisdom  of  the  schools,  — 
*'  Lo,  Christ  is  here  !  lo,  Christ  is  there  !  " 

Ye  doubts  that  drive  me  to  despair, 
'T  was  there  ye  learned  your  cunning  rules  ! 

"  ^  For  oh,  the  cruel  doubts  that  jeer 
And  mock  at  my  bewildered  quest ! 
The  vague  misgivings  unexpressed  ! 
The  echoed  taunt,  —  "  Lo,  there  !  lo,  here !  " 

"'Till  I  am  fain  to  cry,  "  Give  o'er  ; 
There  is  no  Christ ;  or,  if  there  be, 
I  doubt  there  is  a  Christ  for  me : 
I  will  not  seek  Him  any  more !  '" 

"  I  looked  up,  passion-flushed  ;  but  he 

Stood  grave,  yet  kind,  —  as  though  reproof 
Were,  for  the  moment,  kept  aloof 
By  stronger  force  of  sympathy. 


THE  SOLVENT   OF  DOUBT  57 

"  '  Poor  child  !  '  he  answered,  '  not  alone 
You  walk,  encompassed  by  this  cloud ; 
But  where  one  speaks  his  doubt  aloud, 
A  thousand  die  and  make  no  moan. 

" '  And  yet  not  blameless  in  His  sight, 

His  pure  and  searching  sight,  you  stand, 
AYhose  fan  is  in  His  purging  hand, 
And  who  will  judge  all  hearts  aright. 

"  ^  Think  you  the  flaws  of  creed  and  sect 
Will  plead  for  you  when  He  shall  roll 
The  curtain  from  your  separate  soul. 
And  bid  you  look  on  His  Elect, 

"  *  His  Well-Beloved,  whom  you  slew 
With  cruel  doubts  because,  forsooth, 
He  showed  unsightly  and  uncouth. 
For  the  poor  lens  you  viewed  Him  through  ? 

"  '  Beware  !  who  stumbles  on  this  stone 
Is  bruised ;  but  ground  to  powder  he 
On  whom  it  falls  !     No  empty  plea 
Will  aught  avail  before  His  throne.' 

"  A  hoarse  wind  smote  the  forest  boughs. 
That  bent  and  shrieked  :  for  all  reply 
I  pointed  to  the  threatening  sky  ;  — 
*And  you  are  far  from  any  house,' 


58  THE  SOLVENT  OF  DOUBT 

"  He  said,  '  and  may  I  lead  you  hence  ? 

The  storm  is  gathering.      Hasten  !  come ! ' 
And  like  a  child  he  led  me  home, 
Unwitting  of  the  finer  sense, 

"  The  deeper  meaning  that  my  soul 

Gave  to  his  words,  '  0  hasten  !  come ! ' 
And  how  indeed  he  led  me  home, 
Doubt-cured,  and  ransomed,  and  made  whole. 

"  O  Christ  of  God  I  "  —  and  reverently 

She  raised  her  eyes,  —  "  thou  art  the  Way ! 
Sects  differ,  creeds  may  lead  astray  j 
Blest  is  the  man  who  follows  thee." 

She  ceased.  The  setting  sun,  alight, 
Fell  on  her  golden  curls  and  shed 
A  sudden  glory  round  her  head ; 

I  looked,  and  read  the  symbol  right. 

And  thought,  "  O  beautified  and  crowned  ! 

O  friend,  how  fair,  how  blest  thou  art! 

Who  follows  Christ  with  single  heart 
All  good  in  heaven  and  earth  has  found." 

A  laugh,  a  gay  tone  on  the  breeze  ! 

The  merry  loiterers  had  returned  ; 

Our  hearts  within  our  bosoms  burned, 
We  could  not  cope  with  sounds  like  these. 


THOUGHT  AND   SPEECH  59 

'^  'T  is  late,  and  let  us  go,"  I  said, 

And  led  the  way  home  through  the  dew, 
She  following  ;  —  though  of  the  two, 
She  was  the  leader,  I  the  led. 


THOUGHT   AND   SPEECH 

There  came  to  me  a  thought 
By  winged  Fancy  brought. 
Subtle  as  flame ;  of  light  and  sweetness  wrought. 

"With  costly  pains  and  care, 
I  sought  in  words  as  rare. 
To  clasp  and  hold  it :  it  exhaled  in  air 

And  vanished,  —  all  the  grace, 
The  gleam  ;  and  in  its  place, 
A  cold  abstraction  stared  me  m  the  face. 

"  O  thought  forever  fled !  " 
Then  to  myself  I  said ; 
'  0  sweetness  lost !     O  fine  aroma  shed  !  " 

"  Not  so,"  a  voice  replied  ; 
"  Thought  lives  and  shall  abide  : 
Only  to  utter  it  has  been  denied." 


60  THE  COST 


THE   COST 


Eagle,  bruised  in  your  dizzy  flight, 
Soaring  yon  jagged  crests  among  ; 

Poet-heart,  on  your  lonely  height. 

Wounded,  scaling  the  peaks  of  Wrong, 

A  bleeding  bosom  were  poor  requite 
For  an  eagle's  wing  and  a  poet's  song ! 


WHO   KNOWS 

A  CHILD  lay  sleeping  in  the  rosy  dawn, 
And  sleeping,  dreamed.     What  fancies  crossed 

his  brain 
We  know  not :  now  a  shadow,  as  of  pain. 
Clouded  his  tranquil  features,  and  anon 
A  smile  lay  beautiful  his  face  upon ; 
The  household  stirred  around  him,  but  in  vain 
The  noisy  prattle  of  the  household  train 

To  break  the  spell ;  outside,  upon  the  lawn, 
The  birds  sang  shri'lly,  and  the  clarion  cocks 
Answered  with  lusty  cheer  ;  but  all  unheard 
By  him  or  crow  of  cock  or  song  of  bird. 

Who  knows  but  life  be  such:  a  dream  that  locks 
Our  senses  to  the  Real  about  us  rife  ! 
If  sleep  can  thus  enthrall  us,  may  not  life  ? 


COMPENSATION  61 


AN  OPEN   SECRET 

Would  the  lark  sing  the  sweeter  if  he  knew 
A  thousand  hearts  hung  breathless  on  his  lay  ? 
And  if  "  How  fair !  "  the  rose  could  hear  us 
say, 
Would  she,  her  primal  fairness  to  outdo, 
Take  on  a  richer  scent,  a  lovelier  hue  ? 

Who  knows  or  cares  to  answer  yea  or  nay  ? 
O  tuneful  lark  !  sail,  singing,  on  your  way, 
Brimmed  with  excess  of  ecstasy ;  and  you. 
Sweet  rose  !  renew  with  every  perfect  June 
Your  perfect  blossoming  !     Still  Nature-wise, 
Sing,  bloom,  because  ye  must,  and  not  for 
praise. 
If  only  we,  who  covet  the  fair  boon 

Of  well-earned  fame,  and  wonder  where  it  lies, 
Would  read  the  secret  in  your  simple  ways ! 


COMPENSATION 

Not  in  each  shell  the  diver  brings  to  air 
Is  found  the  priceless  pearl,  but  only  where 
Mangled,    and   torn,    and   bruised    well-nigh    to 

death. 
The  wounded  oyster  draws  its  laboring  breath. 
Oh,  tried  and  suffering  soul!  gauge  here  your  gain; 
The  joearl  of  patience  is  the  fruit  of  pain. 


62  BE  LIKE   THE  SUN 


BE   LIKE   THE   SUN 

Be  like  the  sun,  that  pours  its  ray 
To  glad  and  glorify  the  day. 

Be  like  the  moon,  that  sheds  its  light 
To  bless  and  beautify  the  night. 

Be  like  the  stars,  that  sparkle  on, 
Although  the  sun  and  moon  be  gone. 

Be  like  the  skies,  that  steadfast  are, 
Though  absent  sun  and  moon  and  star. 


WAITING 

Be  patient :  under  the  patient  sun 
The  sweet  fruits  ripen,  one  by  one. 

Be  patient :  steadily,  sand  by  sand, 
The  green  earth  grew  in  God's  great  hand- 
Be  patient :  where  now  the  oak  is  found, 
Once  slept  an  acorn  underground. 

Slowly  the  fruit  swings  ripe  in  the  sun  *, 
Slowly  God's  work  on  earth  is  done. 


TEE  FOUR  MOTTOES  63 

Slow  climbs  the  oak  from  the  acorn's  shell ; 
Slower  climbs  justice  from  its  dark  cell. 

Slowly  the  great  earth  grew  and  grew ; 
Slower  the  growth  of  the  good  and  true : 

Slower  but  surer  ;  the  stoutest  oak 

Falls  'neath  the  woodman's  sturdy  stroke. 

Fruits  that  mellowest  swing  and  sway 
Ripen  at  length  to  a  slow  decay  ; 

And  this  great,  green  earth,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Shall  shrivel  and  scorch  like  a  burning  scroll ; 

But  truth  and  justice  shall  stand  for  aye, 
Though  the  heavens  and  earth  should  pass  away. 

Let  us  be  patient,  and  work  and  wait ; 
Good  is  omnipotent,  God  is  great. 

Let  us  be  patient  with  perfect  trust ; 
Truth  is  eternal  and  God  is  just. 


THE  FOUR  MOTTOES 

"  Look  up  and  not  down !  "  —  do  you  mind  how 
the  tree-top 
Rejoices  in  sunshine  denied  to  its  root  ? 


64  THE  FOUR  MOTTOES 

And    hear    how   the    lark,   gazing    skyward,    is 
flooding 
All  earth  with  its  song,  while  the  ground-bird  is 
mute? 

"  Look  out  and  not  in !  "  —  see  the   sap  rushing 
outward 

In  leaf,  bud,  and  blossom  ;  all  winter  it  lay- 
Imprisoned,  while  earth  wore  a  white  desolation ; 

Now  Nature  is  glad  with  the  beauty  of  May. 

*'  Look  forward,  not  back  !  "  —  'T  is  the  chant  of 
creation, 
The  chime  of  the  seasons  as  onward  they  roll ; 
'T  is  the  pulse  of  the  world,  't  is  the  hope  of  the 


This  voice  of  the  Lord  in  the  depths  of  the 
soul ! 

*'  Lend    a   hand  !  "  —  like   the    sun,    that  turns 
night  into  morning, 
The  moon,  that  guides  storm-driven  sailors  to 
land :  — 
Ah,   life   were    worth   living   with    this    for    its 
watchword  — 
"  Look  up,  out,  and  forward,  and  each  lend  a 
hand !  " 


A   TALE   OF  TWO  BUCKETS  65 


LE  ROI  EST  MORT!   VIVE  LE  ROI! 

"  The  king  is  dead !     Long  live  the  king !  "  One 
breath 
For  knell  and  coronation :  that  is  brave  ! 
Why  should  we  linger,  mourning,  at  the  grave 
Of   an   old  creed  outgrown,  when  some   "God 

saith  " 
Is  calling  us  to  a  diviner  faith  ? 

Or  stay,  in  sorrow's  penitential  wave 
The  ashes  of  some  darling  sin  to  lave, 
Or  selfish  passion  that  has  died  the  death  ? 
Nay,  nay,  —  the  king  is  dead  !     long    live    the 
king! 
The  king  of  loftier  trust  and  larger  hope 
And  better  purposes  and  purer  aims. 
Ring,  O  my  soul,  glad  acclamations  ring 
From  all  your  happy  towers,  till  cope  to  cope 
*'  Long  live  the  king !  long  live  the  king  !  " 
proclaims. 


A  TALE   OF  TWO   BUCKETS 

Two  buckets  in  an  ancient  well 
got  talking  once  together, 

And  after  sundry  wise  remarks,  — 
no  doubt  about  the  weather,  — 


66  AN  INCIDENT 

"  Look  here,"  quoth  one,  "  this  life  we  lead 

I  don't  exactly  like  ; 
Upon  my  word,  I  'm  half  inclined 

to  venture  on  a  strike  ; 
For,  do  you  mind  ?  however  full 

we  both  come  up  the  well, 
We  go  down  empty,  —  always  shall, 

for  aught  that  I  can  tell." 

"That 's  true,"  the  other  said;  "but  then, 

the  way  it  looks  to  me,  — 
However  empty  we  go  down, 

we  come  up  full,  you  see." 
Wise  little  bucket !     If  we  each 

would  look  at  life  that  way. 
Would  dwarf  its  ills  and  magnify 

its  blessings,  day  by  day. 
The  world  would  be  a  happier  place, 

since  we  should  all  decide 
Only  the  buckets  full  to  count, 

and  let  the  empty  slide. 


AN  INCIDENT 

Sarah  paused  anear  the  window, 
Gathered  up  her  baby  form. 

And  with  pleased,  incredulous  wonder. 
Gazed  upon  the  wintry  storm. 


AN  INCIDENT  67 

Slowly  fell  the  glittering  snowflakes, 
One  by  one,  like  blossoms  fair, 

Rifled  from  some  bower  of  roses 
By  the  covetous  summer  air ; 

Nearer  drew  the  child,  her  eyes 

Dilating  with  a  large  surprise. 

*'  Flowers !  "  at  length  she  murmurs  softly, 

Upward  gazing  all  the  while, 
Till  the  fancy  warms  her  features 

With  a  bright  exulting  smile. 
Bravo  !  she  has  solved  the  problem 

To  her  own  sweet  faith,  at  least. 
And  she  hugs  the  dear  illusion 

Till  the  glittering  show  has  ceased ; 
Seeing  only  in  the  storm 
Summer  blossoms  fresh  and  warm ! 

Darling,  show  my  heart  the  lesson  ; 

"When  life's  dreary  tempests  rise. 
Teach  me  how  to  stand  and  face  them 

With  thy  hopeful,  happy  eyes  ! 
In  each  trial  well  surmounted 

Finding  germs  of  future  bliss, 
Till  I  reach  that  happier  dwelling 

Where,  in  looking  back  on  this, 
I  shall  see  life's  stormiest  hours 
Wove  for  me  but  sweetest  flowers ! 


THE  DAME  AND   THE   CRITIC 


THE  DAME  AND  THE  CRITIC 

[Versified  from  Hans  Christian  Andersen's  Tale,  "Some- 
thing."] 

Two  souls,  just  freed  from  mortal  guise, 
Knelt  at  the  gates  of  Paradise ; 
He,  arrogant  and  bold  of  mien. 
She,  meek  yet  fearless  and  serene, 
And  as  the  time  seemed  long  to  wait 
Before  the  opening  of  the  gate, 
They  fell  to  talking. 

"  Dame,"  quoth  he, 
"  While  good  St.  Peter  finds  the  key, 
Pray  tell  me,  if  it 's  no  offence, 
Your  name,  and  how  you  came,  and  whence ; 
What  you  accomplished  worthily." 
(A  pedant  and  a  critic  he. 
More  skilled  to  censure  than  to  praise. 
The  man  had  passed  his  mortal  days 
In  slothful  ease,  his  caustic  pen 
Belaboring  better,  busier  men.) 

"  I  am  old  Margaret,"  she  replied  ; 
"  My  home  and  hut  the  sea  beside : 
I  've  lived  a  quiet,  simple  life. 
By  crime  unsoiled,  unvexed  by  strife  ; 
But  as  for  aught  that  I  have  been, 
Or  done,  these  blessed  gates  to  win, 
I  make  no  plea." 

"  But  tell  me  now," 


THE  DAME  AXD   THE   CRITIC  69 

Tlie  critic  questioned,  "why  and  how 
You  left  the  world." 

"  I  scarce  can  tell," 
She  answered  ;  '•  what  at  last  befell 
Seems  all  so  strange  !     I  can  recall 
But  this  :  beyond  the  great  sea-wall, 
Built  out  to  keep  the  tide  at  bay, 
The  townsfolk  forth  had  gone  to  play 
On  pleasant  lutes,  and  dance  and  feast, 
Upon  the  ice :  the  crowd  increased 
With  every  movement.     From  my  bed 
(For  I  was  feeble,  sick,  and  old, 
Nay,  helpless,  if  the  truth  were  told) 
I  saw  the  moon  rise,  round  and  red. 
And  marked  along  the  marge  a  cloud, 
Slow-spreading,  white  as  any  shroud  ; 
And.  as  I  looked,  its  centre  grew 
Black,  black  as  ink.     Ah,  then  I  knew, 
For  I  had  seen  the  sign  before. 
In  my  long  life  beside  the  shore,  — 
Had  seen  the  fearful  omen  twice. 
And  knew  the  errand  that  it  bore 
To  the  doomed  people  on  the  ice. 

"  I  knew  that  tempest,  flood  and  wreck 
Were  waiting  on  its  awfid  beck  ; 
That  ere  an  hour  should  pass,  the  deep 
Its  bonds  would  break  and  overleap 
The  wall  in  floods  ;  was  it  too  late 
To  save  my  people  from  their  fate  ? 


70  THE  DAME  AND   THE   CRITIC 

Alas,  what  hand,  unless  't  were  mine, 
Could  warn  them,  knowing  not  the  sign  ? 
^Dear  Lord,  in  mercy  give  me  power 
To  save  them  in  this  fearful  hour,* 
I  cried  in  sorest  agony : 
He  heard.  He  heard  and  answered  me. 
Strength  came  to  me  in  every  limb, 
My  weakness  seemed  a  sick-bed  whim ; 
I  rose,  I  ran,  I  reached  the  door, 
I  rent  the  air  with  frantic  cries,  — 
*  Good  friends,  good  neighbors  !     I  implore  ! 
Yon  cloud,  yon  cloud !  make  for  the  shore ! ' 
In  vain  ;  no  questions,  no  replies 
Came  back  to  me  ;  my  voice  was  drowned 
Amid  the  feasting  and  the  sound 
Of  lute  and  viol.     Once  again 
Twice,  thrice,  I  called,  —  in  vain,  in  vain ! 

"  But  suddenly  a  daring  thought, 
A  purpose !  it  was  heaven  that  wrought 
And  sent  it  me  :  could  I  but  fire 
My  hut,  my  home,  and  thus  the  dire 
Calamity  forestall !     I  knew 
The  people  were  too  good  and  true 
To  guess  what  plight  were  mine  nor  come 
Quick  to  the  rescue  :  so,  with  numb 
And  trembling  hands,  I  lit  the  straw 
That  filled  my  frugal  bed  ;  I  saw,  — 

0  joy,  —  I  saw  the  red  flames  rise, 

1  heard  the  people's  sudden  cries, 


THE  DAME  AND   THE   CRITIC  71 

And,  groping  blindly  to  the  door, 
Beheld  them  hurrying  to  the  shore. 
Beheld  them  pass  the  great  sea-wall, 
And  knew  that  I  had  saved  them  all ! 

"  Then  came  a  rushing,  deafening  sound, 
A  crash,  as  if  the  solid  ground 
Were  breaking  up  ;  then  chaos,  night : 
I  know  no  more.     The  shock,  the  fright 
Were  too  much  for  a  helpless  thing 
Like  me,  and  so  death's  pitying  wing 
Hovered  above  and  brought  me  here, 
To  find  a  home  of  light  and  cheer 
In  place  of  that  I  lost  below  ; 
Or  so  I  trust.     But  this  I  know, 
'T  is  all  of  grace,  if  it  be  so." 

With  that  the  gates  were  opened  wide, 
And  straight  an  angel  to  her  side 
Swift  glided,  with  a  glad  intent 
To  lead  her  in.     As  on  they  went, 
A  straw,  which  had  escaped  the  fire 
When  first  she  lit  her  funeral  pyre, 
Fell  at  her  feet ;  and  while  the  two 
Looked  down  upon  it,  lo,  it  grew 
Into  a  spray  of  purest  gold, 
With  leaves  and  blossoms  manifold  ! 
"  Fair  symbol  of  a  good  deed  wrought ! " 
The  angel  cried,  "  and  hast  thou  aught. 
O  critic,  aught  like  this  to  show 


72  THE  DAME  AND   THE   CRITIC 

In  proof  of  service  down  below  ? 

Then  hear  thy  doom." 

The  Dame's  kind  soul 

Was  moved  to  pity  :  "  Give  him  dole 

Of  the  large  grace  vouchsafed  to  me," 

She  pleaded  of  the  angel ;   "  see, 

His  brother  wrought  me,  at  my  need, 

Bricks  for  my  hut :  shall  not  this  deed 

Atone?" 

"  You  hear,"  the  angel  cried, 
"  Another's  work  must  be  applied 

To  cover  your  life-lack !  not  so  ; 

And  yet  a  respite  I  bestow : 

Remain  outside ;  a  day  of  grace 

Is  granted  you ;  if  in  this  place, 

Where  yet  repentance  may  avail, 

You  see  your  folly  and  bewail 

Your  error,  and  through  earnest  quest, 

Accomplish  something,  —  not  the  best, 

But  something,  —  it  may  be  that  you, 

Saved  as  by  fire,  shall  enter  too. 

And  find  within  this  blissful  gate 

A  home." 

The  critic  heard  his  fate : 
"  That  little  speech  I  could  have  wrought 

Much  more  effectively,"  he  thought. 

But  from  expressing  it  refrained ; 

And  that,  for  him,  was  something  gained. 


A  POEM  OF  NATURE  73 


A  POEM  OF  NATURE 

The  world  is  growing  old,  —  so  sages  say 
And  poets  sing  ;  but  look  abroad  to-day : 
How  like  a  monarch,  throned  and  plenty -crowned, 
Our  regal  earth !  her  ruddy  temples  bound 
With  chaplets  of  bright  flowers,  and  at  her  feet 
Her  waving  harvests  and  her  fruitage  sweet. 
Here  are  no  signs  of  eld  or  dull  decay, 
Despite  what  poets  sing  and  sages  say. 

Man  ripens  and  decays  ;  his  glorious  powers 
Dim  'neath  the  shade  of  his  declining  hours  ; 
Age  dulls  his  eye,  and  ere  his  knell  is  rung. 
Palsies  the  cunning  of  his  glowing  tongue. 
Man,  man  decays,  but  earth  is  ever  young ! 

Dear  mother-earth !  as  fresh  as  when  at  first 
In  Eden's  garden  her  young  life  was  nursed ;  — 
Renewed  each  year,  as  often  as  the  spring 
Sets  all  the  trees  astir  with  blossoming. 
And  witches  into  music  every  stream 
Beneath  the  magic  of  her  April  gleam ! 
See  how  the  generous  sap  from  her  own  heart 
Pours  without  stint,  and  strengthens  every  part 
Of  her  young  offspring;    trees  and  shrubs  and 

flowers 
Share  in  her  fulness  and  partake  her  powers. 
She  paints  her  roses,  and  with  equal  care 
Flushes  with  carmine  nectarine  and  pear ; 


74  A  POEM  OF  NATURE 

She  hangs  her  grapes  out,  sweet  and  purple-dyed, 
Nor  slights  the  grass  green-growing  far  and  wide  ; 
Her  loving  hands  with  equal  skill  adorn 
The  crimson  tulip  and  the  tassclled  corn. 
No  partial  step-dame  she,  our  mother-earth ! 
She  counts  naught  alien  nor  of  stranger  birth ; 
Her  broad  breast  cradles  all  her  love  brings  forth. 
Nor  weighs  her  favors  by  the  claimant's  worth. 

A  lesson  here  for  us,  O  gentle  friends  ! 
Though,  in  good  sooth,  whoe'er  obedient  lends 
A  listening  ear  in  nature's  patient  school 
Will  shape  his  life  by  many  a  wholesome  rule 
Not  chronicled  in  books,  —  and  therefore  we. 
Tillers  of  earth,  who  all  her  secrets  see 
As  well  as  hear,  what  patterns  we  should  be ! 

But  this  by  way  of  prelude  to  a  strain 
Which,  though  but  rudely  sung,  yet  hopes  to  gain 
Your  ears  attentive,  —  though  we  all  agree 
The  theme  's  but   hackneyed,  —  nathless,  come 

with  me 
Down  this  rude  lane,  ablaze  with  goldenrod 
And  fresh  with  fragrance  from  the  upturned  sod. 
To  where  yon  farmhouse  lifts  its  modest  head, 
By  peace,  content  and  health  inhabited. 
The  tranquil  kine,  reposing  in  the  grass. 
Turn  dreamy  eyes  upon  us  as  we  pass  ; 
The  shy  sheep  gaze  askance,  and  chanticleer 
Disturbs  the  silence  with  a  lusty  cheer 
From  the  far  barn-yard:   sights  and  sounds  are 
these 


A  POEM   OF  NATURE  75 

To  make  the  saddest  cheerful  and  at  ease. 
How  full  the  quiet  spot  of  sweet  perfumes, 
Aromas  of  fresh  grass  and  clover-blooms ! 
How  like  a  Sabbath  stillness,  or  like  prayer, 
The  cloistered  calm  of  this  sequestered  air ! 

Anon  the  swinging  scythe  perchance  is  heard  ; 
Anon  the  sacred,  Sabbath  calm  is  stirred 
By  sounding  flail  or  woodman's  axe  anear. 
Reechoing  through  the  forest  sharp  and  clear : 
The  dim  old  forest,  where  the  children  go 
A-nutting  when  the  leaves  are  all  aglow 
Beneath  the  frost-king's  touch.     Such  merry  routs 
The  little  people  tell  of  thereabouts ! 
And  then  the  huskings  and  the  apple-bees. 
The  pleasant  picnics  underneath  the  trees,  — 
What  city  belle  can  boast  such  joys  as  these  ? 

But  not  outside  the  modest  farmhouse  dwells 
Its  sweetest  charm  ;  that  quiet  roof-tree  tells 
Of  love  and  trust  beneath  its  humble  dome, 
And  all  that  glads  and  sanctifies  a  home. 
Here  the  good  housewife  plies  her  cheerful  tasks 
From  morn  to  eve,  nor  gift  nor  guerdon  asks 
Save  the  sweet  payment  of  her  husband's  smile. 
And  God's  dear  love,  and  health  and  strength  the 

while. 
Her  rosy  daughters,  not  too  fine  to  soil 
Their  pretty  fingers  with  the  marks  of  toil, 
With  cheerful  patience  sew  the  lengthened  seam, 
Prepare  the  meal  or  churn  the  yellow  cream, 
Or  lead  the  toddling  baby  that  essays 


76  A  POEM  OF  NATURE 

Unequal  steps  about  the  household  ways, 
Or  hasten  to  the  door  when  daylight  fails 
To  unburden  "  father  "  of  his  brimming  pails. 
Thrice  happy  man,  thrice  happy  father  he  ! 
His  smoking  supper  ready,  on  his  knee 
The  crowing  baby,  and  around  his  board 
Health  and  content,  he  well  may  thank  the  Lord ! 

Life  has  its  trials,  whatsoe'er  our  lot ; 
But  if  there  be,  on  God's  dear  earth,  one  spot 
Crowned  more  than  others  with  his  favors  lent, 
'T  is  such  a  home  as  this  :  all  sweet  content, 
All  peaceful,  heavenly  influences  meet 
To  purify,  enrich  and  make  it  sweet. 
Within,  without,  around  it  and  above, 
Good  thoughts,  like  blessed  angels,  rove  and  rove. 
The  very  cattle,  knee-deep  in  the  brooks, 
Have  lessons  for  us  in  their  patient  looks ; 
The  silent  hills,  slow-stretching  far  away. 
The  shady  hollows  with  the  lambs  at  play 
In  their  cool  bosoms,  the  rejoicing  rills, 
The  sobbing  of  the  lonely  whip-poor-wills, 
The  misty  glories  of  the  purpling  morn. 
The  night's   deep  splendor  when  the  stars  are 

born. 
The  corn  up-springing  'neath  the  sun  and  rain, 
The  ripening  fruitage  and  the  nodding  grain, 
The  changing  seasons  as  they  come  and  go, 
Winter  the  pilgrim,  with  his  coif  of  snow, 
Spring  the  sweet  charmer,  summer  all  ablaze 
'Neath  the  rich  dower  of  her  meridian  days, 


NATURE  AND  POET  77 

And,  best  of  all,  glad  autumn  blithe  and  sweet, 

Laying  her  wealth  uncounted  at  our  feet !  — 

Who,  living  out  his  peaceful  life  among 

Scenes  such  as  these,  more  eloquent  than  tongue 

Of  priest  or  prelate,  who,  if  he  be  wise 

To  learn  the  lessons  set  before  his  eyes, 

But  shall  imbibe  the  wisdom  they  impart, 

And  win  the  blessing  of  the  "  pure  in  heart !  "  — 

Such  as  "  see  God,"  —  see  Him  not  only  there, 

In  His  dear,  far-off  heaven,  but  everywhere : 

In  the  bright  glancing  of  the  robin's  wing, 

As  in  a  planet's  steady,  ceaseless  swing ; 

In  the  small  mercies  of  the  passing  years, 

As  in  the  forces  which  control  the  spheres ; 

In  little  household  trials,  wisely  sent. 

As  in  the  pangs  which  rend  a  continent ; 

In  every  strange  vicissitude  of  earth, 

In  smiling  plenty  and  in  direful  dearth ; 

See  Him  in  all  His  gracious  hand  has  sent 

Of  joy  and  sorrow  mercifully  blent. 

And  seeing,  love,  and  loving,  be  content ! 

NATURE   AND   POET 

No  poet  ever  wholly  caught 

Or  fully  uttered  Nature's  thought : 

The  stream  flows  sweeter  than  the  lay 

Sung  in  its  praise  ;  the  rosy  day 

Is  fairer  than  was  ever  told 

By  bard  sublime  or  minstrel  bold. 


78  NATURE  AND  POET 

The  truest  note  is  his  who  sings 
The  closest  to  the  heart  of  things, 
Though  conscious,  all  the  while,  how  far 
Away  his  nearest  ventures  are,  — 
That  earth  and  air  and  sea  and  sky- 
Are  rhythmic  with  a  harmony 
Whose  core  of  sweetness  human  speech, 
Probe  as  it  may,  can  never  reach. 

Nature's  great  anthem,  all  imsung 
Save  by  herself  !     Could  mortal  tongue 
But  voice  these  wordless  symphonies 
And  sound  her  music  as  it  is ! 
Challenge  the  silence  held  so  long 
And  syllable  in  perfect  song 
Her  deeper  wonders,  larger  moods,  — 
The  splendor  of  her  autumn  woods, 
The  regal  blossoming  of  dawn, 
Night  with  its  crown  of  silence  on ! 
Chant  the  full  glory  of  a  star 
And  tell  how  fair  the  Pleiads  are ! 
Hymn  the  informing  life  which  glows 
In  the  red  bosom  of  the  rose. 
And  makes  the  listening  daisy  sweet 
With  wide-eyed  wonder  at  our  feet ! 
Translate  —  what  yet  no  human  ear 
To  finest  issues  tuned  can  hear  — 
The  elfin  songs  the  blossoms  sing. 
Chimes  that  the  merry  bluebells  ring, 
The  daffodilly's  roundelay. 


NATURE  AND  POET  7 

And  what  the  happy  kingcups  say  ! 
Make  audible,  by  some  sweet  art, 
The  secret  at  the  lily's  heart  I 
Voice,  in  swift  changes  manifold, 
The  rainbow's  sheen,  the  sunset's  gold, 
Moonrise  upon  the  lonely  seas, 
The  breath  of  morn  on  upland  leas, 
June's  freshness,  spring's  prophetic  stir, 
The  countless  signs  that  herald  her. 
The  majesty  of  hills,  the  rush 
Of  rivers,  midnight's  awful  hush ! 

Yet  faint  not,  poet-heart,  nor  miss 

Thy  birthright  crown  because  of  this ! 

Nature  no  miser  is,  to  hold 

And  hide  her  wealth,  as  men  do  gold ; 

Nor  yet  a  spendthi'ift,  reaching  out 

An  easy  alms  to  every  lout 

Presuming  on  her  grace.     She  gives 

To  none  her  high  prerogatives  ; 

Keeps  her  sealed  orders,  signed  of  old, 

Inviolate  within  her  hold  ; 

Yet,  pitiful  of  human  need. 

She  bends  to  us  with  answering  meed 

Of  sympathy,  —  where  most  besought, 

Besto^ving  most,  and  grudging  naught 

That  mortal  fantasy  can  reach 

And  comprehend  in  mortal  speech. 

Her  awful  pageants  go  and  come. 

And  leave  thee  as  they  found  thee,  —  dumb 


80  NATURE  AND  POET 

Her  sweet  surprises  throng  thy  way 
And  dare  thy  worthiest  essay 
To  give  them  voice ;  the  more  pursued 
The  more  they  mock  thee  and  elude. 
What  then  ?    In  ways  unnumbered  still, 
She  summons  all  thy  human  skill, 
By  signs  which  thou  canst  understand, 
To  grasp  her  purpose  large  and  grand, 
And  make  thyself,  through  guest  of  her, 
Her  loyal,  true  interpreter. 

For  Nature  aye  doth  condescend 

To  such  ;  her  poet  is  her  friend : 

She  gives  him  insight,  lends  him  wings. 

And  bids  him  soar  the  while  he  sings ; 

Purges  his  soul  of  its  old  ache,  — 

The  greed  of  fame  for  fame's  own  sake,  - 

Till,  haply,  in  its  place,  he  find 

A  burning  zeal  to  serve  his  kind  : 

His  song  she  witches  with  her  tone 

Till  half  it  seems  her  very  own  : 

By  deeper  than  Castalian  founts 

She  leads  him,  and  to  fairer  mounts 

Than  fair  Parnassus  ;  bids  him  drink, 

Unsated,  at  the  purer  brink 

Of  her  pure  lips,  and  walk  abreast 

With  Truth  upon  her  mountain  crest. 


JAN  UARY-  FEBR  UAR  Y  81 


JANUARY 

Good-day,  new  world !     Like  him  of  Genoa, 
We  glad  adventurers  kneel  and  kiss  the  strand 
Of  our  emprise,  —  this  new-discovered  land 
Of  time,  —  and  cry,  "  Good-day,  new  world  !  good 

day!" 
Onward,  brave  hearts !  keep  doubt  and  fear  at 
bay! 
These  ambushed  ills  which  lurk  on  every  hand 
Are  but  allies  to  lead  us  into  grand 
Possession  of  ourselves,  and  of  the  way. 

Oh  year  !  new  year  !     World  yet  untried  and 
strange  I 
For  him  who  thus  adventures,  all  good  things 
You  hold  in  store ;  for  he  it  is  who  brings 

Hope   to   the    front,   and   courage:    him,   no 
change 
Shall  harm  or  weaken,  nor  shall  any  chance 
Rob  him  of  his  divine  inheritance. 


FEBRUARY 

Winter  at  length  slow-waning  to  its  close. 
Nature  declares  her  penance  well-nigh  done ; 
And  sends,  in  challenge  to  the  laggard  sun. 
Fair,  truant  days,  balmy  and  soft  as  those 
May  scatters :  then  mock-penitent  she  grows, 


82  MARCH 

Owns  the  sad  cheat,  —  and  jubilant,  like  one 

Who  knows  no  master,  apes,  for  very  fun, 
Her  old-time  rigors,  piling  deep  her  snows 

As  in  midwinter.     Ah,  a  wayward  thing 
Is  Nature  !     Something  of  her  April  mood 
Disturbs  —  nay,   warms    and    quickens    all   her 
blood ; 

And  whether  summer,  winter,  autumn,  spring, 
Holds  her  in  leash,  she  breaks  away  at  will,  — 
Supreme  for  all  her  bonds,  and  regnant  still ! 

MARCH 

MoxTH  of  the  warlike  name  and  warring  blast, 
Welcome!   since  both  belie  thee.     Thou  dost 

bring 
Sealed  orders  with  thee  from  the  gentle  spring, 

And,  in  thy  noisy  coming,  we  forecast 

Her  milder  advent.     Ay,  we  know  thou  hast 
A  loyal  heart,  despite  the  stormy  ring 
Of  thy  rude  war-cry  !     Late,  a  bluebird's  wing 

Athwart  thy  clouded  path  unchallenged  passed ; 
But  yesterday,  arbutus  buds  I  spied. 

Covered   with  snow  for    leaves,  —  sweet  babes 
o'  the  wood !  — 

And  noted,  peeping  up  in  bravest  mood. 

Green,  growing  things  that  would  no  longer 
hide: 

And  while  thy  shrillest  winds  piped  overhead, 

"  Ah,  spring  is  coming !  "  to  myself  I  said. 


AFEIL  —  3IAY  83 


APRIL 

Summer's  forerunner !     See,  slie  sendeth  thee 

To  search  the  land  and  make  it  soft  with  show- 
ers 

And  sun  and  dew,  and  fit  it  for  her  flowers. 
Haste,  then,  sweet  month,  —  ply  all  thy  witchery 
To  do  her  bidding :  frozen  brooks  set  free 

With  softest  blowing  winds  ;    from  southern 
bowers 

Call  the  blithe  robin ;  to  essay  its  powers 
Of  ruddy  bloom,  tease  the  red  maple  tree 

Till  it  make  answer ;  coax  with  violets. 
And  shame  with  life  astir  beneath  her  snow, 
The  cold,  reluctant  earth,  that  she  may  grow 

Right  motherly,  and  mindful  of  her  pets,  — 
And,   quick  with  May,   at  length  yield  richest 

boon, 
The  red,  red  roses,  and  the  pinks  of  June. 


MAY 

I  SAW  a  child,  once,  that  had  lost  its  way 

In  a  great  city  :  ah,  dear  heaven,  such  eyes  !  — 
A  far-off  look  in  them,  as  if  the  skies 

Her  birthplace  were.     So  looks  to  me  the  May. 

April  is  winsome,  June  is  glad  and  gay ; 

May  glides  betwixt  them  in  such  wondering 


84  JUNE 

Lovely  as  dropped  from  some  fair  Paradise, 
And  knowing,  all  the  while,  herself  astray. 

Or  is  the  fault  with  us  ?     Nay,  call  it  not 
A  fault,  but  a  sweet  trouble !     Is  it  we,  — 
Catcliing  some  glimpse  of  our  own  destiny 

In    May's    renewing    touch,    some    yearning 
thought 
Of  heaven,  beneath  her  resurrecting  hand,  — 
We  who  are  aliens,  lost  in  a  strange  land  ? 


JUNE 

Fair   month   of   roses !     "Who  would   sing   her 
praise. 
One  says,  should  come  direct  from  banqueting 
On  honey  from  Hymettus,  that  he  bring 

Fit  flavor  to  the  strain  his  lip  essays. 

As  if,  around  these  exquisite,  rare  days 

Of  richest  June,  such  sweetness  did  not  cling, 
For  him  who  fain  her  loveliness  would  sing. 

As  Hybla  or  Hymettus  scarce  could  raise, 
With  all  their  storied  bees  ! 

And  yet,  in  vain. 

Poet,  your  verse !     Extol  her  as  you  will, 

One  perfect  rose  her  praises  shall  distil 

More  than  all  song,  though  Sappho  lead  the 
strain. 

Forbear  then  ;  since,  for  any  tribute  fit, 

Her  own  rare  lips  alone  can  utter  it ! 


JULY  — AUGUST  85 


JULY 

Set  like  a  central  ruby  on  the  brow 
Of  summer,  but  a  fiery  month  thou  art, 
July  !  and  yet  we  hail  thee.     Thou  hast  part 
In  Nature's  chivalry  :  knight-errant  thou,  — 
Hot,  fierce,  impetuous ;  on  thy  lips  a  vow 
To  do  thy  great  devoirs  with  loyal  heart. 
Thy  lance  the  sunbeam,  laid  in  rest  to  thwart 
All  alien  forces.     Ah,  right  brave,  I  trow, 

The  deeds  that  we  shall  hear  of !     In  the  corn 
Already  there  are  whisperings  ;  harvest  days 
Shall  bring  full  tidings,  heralding  thy  praise. 

And  the  ripe  year,  winding  his  jocund  horn. 
Shall  boast  thy  brave  exploits  with  lusty  breath 
And  own  thee  knightly  even  unto  death. 


AUGUST 

We  read  of  high-born  dames,  sick  of  life's  glare, 
Who  in  dim  cloisters  fain  would  end  their  days. 
Exchanging  pomp  for  pious  prayer  and  praise  : 

Summer,  is  such  thy  role,  that  thou  dost  wear 

This  nun-like  torpor  in  thine  altered  air  ? 

We  miss  the  sweet  June  freshness,  and  the 

ways 
Of  happy,  hot  July  :  this  August  haze 

Is  like  a  veil  shrouding  thy  features  fair ; 


86  SEPTEMBER 

This  drowsy  stillness  is  a  convent-calm, 
Oppressing  us  like  sadness.     Oh,  sweet  nun, 
Is  it  for  penance  ?     What  deed  hast  thou  done, 

That  happy  mirth  should  change  to  sob  and 
psalm. 
And  telling  of  thy  beads  against  the  pane 
In  the  low  patter  of  this  August  rain  ? 


SEPTEMBER 

The  days  once  more  their  dainty  fare  outspread ; 

For  Nature,  roused  from  dreams,  and  making 
good. 

At  length,  the  promise  of  her  larger  mood. 
No  longer  doles  us  out  her  wine  and  bread 
In  scanty  sort,  —  but  pours  for  us,  instead. 

Her  spicy,  sweet  September !     Now  the  blood 

Of  high  resolve  begins  again  to  flood 
Our  nerveless  souls,  and  life  wakes,  duty-wed. 

Nature,  wise  steward,  thou  art  justified ! 
For  thou  hast  kept  the  good  wine  until  now, 
Against  this  tardy  bridal,  this  late  vow 

Pledging  our  days  to  toil  while  days  abide :  — 
Where  are  the  fallow  fields,  that  we  may  sow 
And  reap  the  latter  harvest,  ere  we  go  ? 


OCTOBER  —  NO  V  EMBER  87 


OCTOBER 

Of  all  the  twelve,  bright  month !  art  thou  the  one 
Best  loved  of  Xature,  that,  with  partial  care, 
She  bids  her  subtle  elements  prepare 
This  robe  of  beauty  for  her  favorite  son,  — 
This  coat  of  many  colors,  deftly  spun 

From  tissues  of  the  rainbow,  from  the  rare, 
Brave  hues  of  sunset  when  the  day  dies  fair. 
From  misty,  purple  dawnings,  ere  begun 

Is  the  swift,  beautiful  coming  of  the  light  ? 
O  princely  garniture !     Well  may  the  rest 
(In  dun,  or  ermine,  or  soft  greenness  drest), 

Beholding  thee  thus  royally  bedight, 
Envy  thy  state,  thou  favorite  of  the  year, 
Darling  of  Nature,  month  without  a  peer ! 


NOVEMBER 

Like  a  late  watcher,  tired  and  sleep-inclined, 
Yet  patient  at  her  post  and  smiling  still, 
The  year  keeps  vigil.  Look  you  where  you  will, 

In  all  her  wide  domain  you  shall  not  find 

Her  hand  has  lost  its  cunning  :  still  the  wind 
Plays  its  soft  descants ;  still  each  rippling  rill 
Goes  singing  seaward  ;  while,  on  every  hill, 

The  sun  pours  benediction  bland  and  kind 
As  blest  the  summer ;  still  the  crickets  hide 


88  DECEMBER 

In  the  warm  grass,  —  and  ever  and  anon, 

A  bee  reels  by,  store-laden  from  the  lawn 

Where   bloom   late    flowers,  alert   and    open- 
eyed: 

"  How  fair,"  they  sigh  with  me,  "  and  oh,  how 
dear, 

This  lingering  sweetness  of  the  dying  year !  " 


DECEMBER 

Dear  month  that  gave  us  Christ !     Ring  sweet, 
ring  strong, 
O  bells  of    Christmas!      Quickened  by  your 

chime. 
Our  eager  wishes,  like  swift  birds  that  climb 
Far-reaching  heights,  soar  up  to  catch  the  song 
The  wondering  shepherds  heard.    Will  it  be  long, 
Before  the  sweetness  of  that  strain  sublime 
Shall  set  itself  to  earth  ?  — poor,  rugged  rhyme 
To  mate  such  music ! 

Shepherd-souls !  that  throng 
Beneath  the  starry  silence,  keeping  guard. 
Tending  your  patient  hopes,  like  flocks  by  night, 
Have   ye   not,    sometimes,    from   yon    heavenly 
height. 
Caught  faintest  whispers  of  that  advent-word 
Heralding  Christ  once  more,  "Peace  and  good 

will, 
Peace  upon  earth  ?  "  O  shepherds,  keep  watch  still. 


SFEING  89 


SPRING 


Apple  blossoms  in  the  orchard, 

Singing  birds  on  every  tree ; 
Grass  a-growing  in  the  meadows 

Just  as  green  as  green  can  be ; 

Violets  in  shady  places,  — 

Sweetest  flowers  were  ever  seen  ! 

Hosts  of  starry  dandelions,  — 

"  Drops  of  gold  among  the  green !  '* 

Pale  arbutus,  fairy  wind-flowers, 

Innocents  in  smiling  flocks ; 
Coolest  ferns  within  the  hollows, 

Columbines  among  the  rocks ; 

Dripping  streams,  delicious  mosses. 

Tassels  on  the  maple  trees  ; 
Drowsy  insects,  humming,  humming; 

Golden  butterflies,  and  bees ; 

Daffodils  in  garden  borders, 

Fiery  tulips  dashed  with  dew ; 
Crocus  flowers  ;  and,  through  the  greenness. 

Snow-drops  looking  out  at  you ! 


90  IN  MAY 


IN  MAY 


The  spring  is  here  ;  the  orchard-blooms 
Like  snow-flakes  whiten  all  the  air : 

I  smell  the  delicate  jDerfumes 
Of  apricot  and  pear. 

I  wander  down  the  gravelled  slopes, 
And  take  the  garden  path  that  leads 

Where,  in  their  blind  assurance,  grojDes 
My  buried  store  of  seeds. 

Ah,  Nature  fails  me  not  I  she  keeps 
Her  promise  sacred  as  of  old ; 

See  where  its  glad  fulfilment  peeps 
Up  through  the  softened  mould ; 

Pansies  and  pinks  and  daffodils, 
A  brave  array  of  bursting  green ; 

Prophetic  of  the  bloom  that  fills 
The  summer  days  with  sheen. 

A  handful  of  unsightly  seed. 

Faith's  offering,  in  faith  I  brought, 

And  lo,  in  answer  to  the  deed, 
A  miracle  is  wrought ! 

And  soon  the  summer's  wizard  hours 
Shall  crown  the  witchery  of  spring. 


IN  MAY  91 

And  I  shall  walk  among  my  flowers 
As  happy  as  a  king. 

Nature,  great  conjurer  !     I  kneel 

Abashed  and  awed  before  her  shrine  : 

Would  some  weird  whisper  might  reveal 
And  make  her  secret  mine  ! 

Yet  this  we  know,  if  only  this : 

She  follows  on  where  we  essay 
A  smoother  path  ;  small  marvel  't  is 

That  we  do  go  astray. 

She  follows  on  through  night  and  noon : 
Makes  odds,  that  else  would  work  her  ill, 

Her  slaves ;  she  yokes  the  sun  and  moon 
To  her  imperious  will ! 

Wrests  blessing  from  the  clouds  and  heat, 

Makes  vilest  offal  tribute  pay ; 
And  ever,  from  what  seems  defeat, 

Plucks  victory  away. 

And  when  shall  come  her  autumn  days, 
And  she  among  her  fruits  and  flowers 

Stands  justified,  how  bright  her  bays 
Shall  be,  compared  with  ours ! 

Ah,  did  we  copy  nature's  ways, 

Her  consummations  we  might  share  ; 


92  A  BAY  IN  SUMMER 

What  songs  of  triumph  we  should  raise  ! 
What  palms  of  victory  bear ! 


A  DAY  IN  SUMMER 

Birds  are  singing  through  the  branches, 

On  this  leafy  summer  day ; 
Thoughts  are  singing  through  my  spirit, 

Radiant  and  glad  as  they. 

I  am  thinking,  as  I  ramble, 

Of  the  olden,  olden  times 
When  I  wandered  through  the  meadows, 

Weaving  happy  childish  rhymes. 

Just  such  sunny  skies  bent  o'er  me 
As  are  bending  o'er  me  now ; 

Just  such  sweet  love-making  breezes 
Kissed  and  kissed  me,  cheek  and  brow. 

Now  the  same  deep  spell  comes  o'er  me. 
With  the  breath  of  this  sweet  day. 

Like  a  fresh,  serene  baptism 
From  the  meadows  far  away. 

And  my  heart  is  glad  and  happy 
With  the  pure  joy  of  a  child ; 

Glad  because  the  Father  sends  it 
Thoughts  so  calm  and  undefiled. 


IN  MIDSUMMER  93 

Gladder  yet  that  still  it  trembles 

To  the  music  of  the  rhymes 
That  I  wove  among  the  meadows 

Of  the  olden,  olden  times. 


m  MIDSUMIMER 

A  FIELD  of  clover  in  the  heat ; 

Dusty  brown  bees  with  laden  thighs, — 

Shaming  the  idle  butterflies, 
The  saucy  poacher-folk  they  meet. 

Which  steal  but  never  store  the  prize 
And  make  no  gain  of  all  the  sweet. 

A  lawless  clan !     Despite  the  sign, 
I  watch,  entranced,  the  lovely  things ! 
I  feed  upon  theu'  painted  wings  ; 

I  drink  their  beauty  in  like  wine ! 
Honey  is  sweet :  I  doubt  it  brings, 

To  sip  it,  pleasure  half  so  fine. 

Then  let  who  will  extol  the  bees ; 

For  me,  the  idle  butterflies. 

O  happy  vagrants,  if  unwise  ! 
I  watch  you  sail  in  sj3endthrift  ease, 

And  shutting  my  toil-weary  eyes. 
Own  that  my  mood  with  yours  agrees. 


94  OCTOBER  INEFFABLE 


OCTOBER    INEFFABLE 

I  'm  out  in  the  free  woods  once  more, 
With  whispering  boughs  o'erhead, 

Strange  influences  round  me  steal, 

And  yet,  what  deepliest  I  feel 
Must  ever  be  unsaid. 

These  glowing,  glowing  autumn  hours, 

These  gorgeous,  wildering  days  ! 
This  dainty  show  of  painted  flowers, 
As  though  with  dusky-golden  showers 
The  air  were  all  ablaze ! 

This  living,  shining,  burnished  wood,  — 

Decked  with  a  thousand  dyes ! 
Its  strong  ribs  laced  with  crimson  sheen, 
And  tricked  with  gold  and  glittering  green, 
Like  kingly  tapestries ! 

This  tangled  roof  of  braided  light 

Above  me  richly  flung ! 
These  glimpses  of  the  sky's  soft  blue. 
This  quivering  sunshine  melting  through. 

This  wide  earth,  glory-hung ! 

How  shall  I  utter  all  I  would  ? 
Alas,  my  struggling  soul,  — 
It  strives  to  voice  these  glorious  things 


AUTUMN  95 


As  strives  a  bird  on  broken  wings 
To  struggle  to  its  goal. 


AUTUMN 

Oh,  the  lovely  autumn  clays, 
When  the  earth  is  all  ablaze 
With  a  thousand  kindling  dyes, 
And  a  misty  glory  lies 
All  about  our  common  ways ! 
When  a  hush  is  in  the  air 
Like  an  inarticulate  prayer. 
Nature,  underneath  her  breath, 
Giving  thanks  for  life  in  death  : 
Death,  so  beautiful  and  rare, 
Life  itself  were  not  so  fair. 

Spring  is  tardy,  changeful,  fleet ; 
Summer  comes  with  dust  and  heat 
Waiting  on  her  flymg  feet : 
But  the  peaceful  autumn  stays. 
Blest  and  blessing,  all  her  days. 
She  it  is  who  mellows  well 
Dainty,  luscious  fruits  that  swell 
From  the  laggard  buds  of  spring 
And  the  summer's  blossoming. 
Ah,  they  need  her  wholesome  touch, 
Lest  they  ripen  overmuch  ; 
So,  with  tempered  breath,  she  cools 


96  IN  AUTUMN 

All  the  fevered  air,  and  schools 
Nature  to  her  own  wdse  rules ; 
Then,  her  labor  done,  she  pours 
Out  her  bountiful,  rich  stores,  — 
Lighting  up,  on  every  hill, 
Altar-fires,  and  kindling  still 
Flames  of  sacrificial  thanks 
Over  all  her  viny  banks. 

Spring  is  tardy,  changeful,  fleet ; 
Summer  comes  with  dust  and  heat ; 
But  the  peaceful  autumn  stays. 
Blest  and  blessing,  all  her  days. 


IN   AUTUMN 

Put  on  your  beautiful  garments, 

O  toiling  earth,  and  rest ! 
The  goal  is  won  and  the  toil  is  done, 

And  now  you  may  don  your  best, 
Your  robe  of  purple  and  scarlet, 

Your  tassels  and  plumes  of  gold, 
The  misty  sheen  of  your  veil  of  green 

And  your  mantle's  crimson  fold. 

0  earth,  so  glad  and  so  fruitful ! 
O  nature,  so  brave  and  true  ! 

1  would  that  we  were  as  wise  as  ye 
In  the  work  we  have  to  do ! 


IN  AUTUMN  97 

We  loiter  and  waste,  —  we  sow  not, 

Or  scatter  our  seed  in  vain,  — 
For  the  stony  field  must  be  luroitght  to  yield 

Its  treasure  of  golden  grain. 

"  Put  on  your  beautiful  garments, 

O  toiling  soul,  and  rest !  " 
Faint  heart  of  mine !  to  that  call  divine 

Be  all  thy  powers  addressed ; 
Sowing  beside  all  waters. 

Faithful  in  that  which  is  least, 
Constant  and  still,  do  the  Master's  will 

Till  the  time  of  toil  has  ceased. 

Then  the  peace  that  shall  come  and  the  gladness  ! 

The  service  that  shall  be  rest ! 
And  the  plaudit  won  of  that  word,  "  Well  done  !  " 

And  the  Master's  "  Come,  ye  blest  1  " 
O  earth !  in  your  sweet  fruition 

Rejoice  and  be  glad  !  but  this, 
The  joy  of  a  soul  that  has  reached  its  goal, 

Is  a  deeper,  holier  bliss. 


98  OCTOBER   WOODS 

OCTOBER  WOODS 

A   MOOD 

O  BLAZING  woods,  lit  up  with  sj^lendors  rare ! 
To  sing  your  state,  methinks,  were  but  akin 
To  his  essay  whose  mocking  violin 

Sang  burning  Rome.     These  bright,  bright  robes 
you  wear 

Have  charms  too  perilous,  because  they  bear 
The  seal  of  Death.  If  only  we  could  win 
Your  old  look  back,  and  stand  once  more  within 

Your  aisles  of  greenness ! 

Ah !   this  show  and  glare 
But    mean    our   banishment.      Dear    doomed 
woods, 
Where  we  have  wandered  the  gay  summer  long, 
Soft,  flickering  sunshine  and  the  wild  bird's  song 

Making  like  Eden  your  sweet  solitudes  — 
A  flaming  sword  guards  all  your  gates,  in  guise 
Of  light  and  beauty  :  farewell,  Paradise  ! 


SUMMER  IN  WINTER 

The  summer  never  quite  departs ; 

Despite  the  snow  and  sleet  and  ice, 
I  hold  her  to  my  heart  of  hearts 

By  many  a  lovely,  quaint  device. 


SUMMER  IN    WINTER  99 

One  glance  upon  my  pictured  walls 
Brings  back  her  sunny  face  to  me,  — 

Her  meadow-lands  and  waterfalls, 
And  haunts  of  wild-wood  greenery. 

Her  birds  flash  out  in  plumage  gay 

From  frame  and  easel,  —  nested  things, 

That  never  pine,  nor  once  essay 
A  flight  upon  their  gleaming  wings. 

Her  plumy  grasses  deck  my  stand. 

Her  oaks  and  maples  flaunt  their  sheen 

Of  red  and  gold  (by  autumn's  hand 
Transfigured),  here  and  there  between. 

Her  flowers  and  fruits  are  mine ;  I  raise 
My  hand,  and  —  artist-wrought  —  I  see 

Great  crimson  roses,  lily  sprays, 
And  blossoms  of  the  fair  sweet-pea. 

And  still,  above  my  daily  board, 

To  feast  my  beauty-loving  eye. 
Her  June-fed  strawberries  are  poured, 

And  cherries  sunned  by  hot  July. 

Her  gracious  presence,  too,  I  meet 
In  alien  things  ;  my  frosted  panes 

The  glories  of  her  realm  repeat 
And  duplicate  her  broad  domains  : 


100  HOMESICK 

Great  forests  here,  perhaps  ;  and  there, 
A  wilderness  of  feathery  brakes ; 

Strange,  tropic  growths,  grotesque  or  fair ; 
Rushes  and  reeds  by  silver  lakes. 

So  summer  never  quite  departs ; 

For,  spite  the  snow  and  sleet  and  ice, 
She  holds  me  to  her  heart  of  hearts 

By  many  a  cunning,  quaint  device. 


HOMESICK 

Talk  not  of  leafy  summer  woods, 
Their  wealth  of  sweetest  minstrelsy. 

Their  sylvan  shades  and  solitudes,  — 
I  languish  for  my  own  blue  sea ! 

Breathing  the  blossom-breath  that  scents 
The  verdurous  branches  of  the  pine. 

My  longing  grows  but  more  intense 
For  flavors  of  the  salt  sea  brine. 

I  stand  and  call :  I  stretch  my  hands, 
Imploring,  to  yon  distant  main  :  — 

"  O  sea-lapped  shore,  0  pebbly  lands, 
Fold  me  in  your  embrace  again." 

Only  the  murmurous  winds  send  back 
An  answer,  —  winds  that  pine  and  moan 


THE  RAIN  101 

Along  the  wild  wood's  leafy  track 
With  ever  melancholy  tone. 

O  glory-crested  waves,  that  flaunt 

Your  brightness  in  this  bright  sunshine ! 

Still,  still  your  far-off  voices  haunt, 
And  ever  shall,  this  heart  of  mine. 


THE   RAIN 

Heigh-ho  !  the  rain, 
The  wild,  impetuous  rain  ! 
Hear  how  it  raves  at  my  window-pane ! 
Hurrying  down  with  a  mad  commotion. 
Mad  as  the  din  of  a  storm-lashed  ocean,  — 
Sweeping  the  mountain,  pelting  the  plain,  — 
Heigh-ho  !  the  wild,  impetuous  rain  ! 

Heigh-ho !  the  rain. 
The  chiding,  querulous  rain  ! 
Hear  how  it  scolds  at  my  window-pane ! 
See  on  the  boughs  that  are  well-nigh  breaking, 
Hundreds  of  leaves  in  their  terror  shaking  ; 
Seeming  to  murmur  this  sad  refrain,  — 
"  Heigh-ho  !  the  chiding,  querulous  rain." 

Heigh-ho !  the  rain, 
The  restless,  tremulous  rain  ! 
Hear  how  it  beats  at  my  window-pane ! 


102  THE  RAIN 

Beats  like  a  heart  by  fear  affrighted, 
Beats  like  a  heart  with  love  delighted ; 
Half  in  gladness  and  half  in  pain,  — 
Heigh-ho !  the  restless,  tremulous  rain  I 

Heigh-ho  !  the  rain, 
The  pleading,  pitiful  rain  ! 
Hear  how  it  sighs  at  my  window-pane ! 
Type  of  a  breast  that  is  full  of  sorrow. 
Sighing  for  peace  and  a  brighter  morrow ; 
Sighs  that  are  uttered  too  oft  in  vain,  — 
Heigh-ho  !  the  pleading,  pitiful  rain ! 

Heigh-ho !  the  rain. 
The  weary,  desolate  rain ! 
Hear  how  it  sobs  at  my  window-pane ! 
Sobs  like  a  child  that  has  lost  its  mother, 
And  never,  never  can  find  another 
To  love  and  cherish  like  her  again ! 
Heigh-ho !  the  weary,  desolate  rain ! 

Heigh-ho !  the  rain. 
The  dainty,  delicate  rain ! 
Hear  how  it  taps  at  my  window-pane  ! 
Gratefully  sweet,  like  Love's  moist  fingers 
Laid  on  a  brow  where  fever  lingers, 
Drip  the  cool  sounds  on  my  heated  brain,  — 
Heigh-ho !  the  dainty,  delicate  rain ! 


BUTTERCUPS  103 

Heigh-ho !  the  rain, 
The  lovely,  musical  rain  ! 
Hear  how  it  chants  at  my  window-pane ! 
Hushed  is  the  tempest's  petulant  chiding, 
Gently  and  gracefully  now  't  is  gliding 
Into  a  calm  and  beautiful  strain,  — 
Heigh-ho  !  the  lovely,  musical  rain ! 

Heigh-ho  !  the  rain, 
The  fitful,  vanishing  rain  ! 
Now  it  has  ceased  at  my  window-pane ; 
Through  the  torn  edge  of  a  cloud  just  parted, 
See  I  one  tremulous  star  has  started  ; 
Putting  to  silence  my  dull  refrain,  — 
*'  Heigh-ho  I  the  fitful,  vanisliing  rain !  " 


BUTTERCUPS 

Buttercups  among  the  grass, 
Smiling  on  us  as  we  pass, 

Lifting  up  such  happy  faces,  — 
Starry-bright  and  bathed  in  dew,  — 
Ah,  if  we  could  be  like  you, 

Each  contented  in  our  places ! 

Whether  skies  be  bright  or  sad, 
Little  matters  :  you  are  glad. 

Darlings,  in  all  sorts  of  weather  ; 
Just  as  happy  here  as  there, 


104  WHAT  TEE  BIRDS  SAT 

Just  as  fresh  and  debonair 
Singly  as  in  crowds  together. 

By  the  side  of  dusty  street 
Cheerful  as  in  meadow  sweet : 

Name  the  spell,  that  we  may  try  it ! 
Ah,  could  gold  its  purchase  be, 
Friend,  't  were  wise  in  you  and  me, 

Selling  all  we  have  to  buy  it ! 


WHAT   THE   BIRDS   SAY 

When  they  chatter  together,  —  the  robins  and 
sparrows. 
Bluebirds  and  bobolinks,  —  all  the  day  long, 
What  do  they  talk  of?   The  sky  and  the  sun- 
shine. 
The  state  of  the  weather,  the  last  pretty  song ; 

Of  love  and  of  friendship,  and  all  the  sweet  trifles 
That  go  to  make  bird-life  so  careless  and  free ; 

The  number  of  grubs  in  the  apple-tree  yonder. 
The  promise  of  fruit  in  the  big  cherry-tree  ; 

•Of  matches  in  prospect ;  how  Robin  and  Jenny 
Are  planning  together  to  build  them  a  nest ; 

How  Bobolink  left  Mrs.  Bobolink  moping 

At  home,  and  went  off  on  a  lark  with  the 
rest. 


THE  CHICKADEE'S  SONG  105 

Such  mild  little  slanders !  such  innocent  gossip ! 
Such  gay  little  coquetries,  pretty  and  bright ! 
Such  happy  love-makings !  such  talks  in  the  or- 
chard ! 
Such  chatterings  at  daybreak!  such  whisper- 
ings at  night ! 

O  birds  in  the  tree-tops !    O  robins  and  sparrows  ! 

O  bluebirds  and  bobolinks!     What  would  be 

May 

Without  your  glad  presence,  —  the  songs  that  you 

sing  us, 

And  all  the  sweet  nothings  we  fancy  you  say  ? 


THE  CHICKADEE'S   SONG 

In  autumn  and  winter,  and  far  into  spring, 
There  's  a  blithe  little  songster   abroad    on  the 

wing: 
His  note  is  as  chipper  as  chipper  can  be ; 
'T  is  the  glad  little,  bright  little,  brave  chickadee. 

The    sky  may  be    threat'ning,  the    sky  may  be 

fair ; 
The  bough  may  be  leafy,   the   bough   may  be 

bare ; 
He  cares  not  the  whisk  of  a  feather,  —  not  he,  — 
This  bright  little,  bhthe  little,  brave  chickadee ! 


106  TO  A  KATYDID 

Soft   May,   bleak  December,  —  ^Yhat  matter  to 

him  ? 
He  lights  on  a  snow-wreath,  or  sways  on  a  limb, 
And  pipes  his  small  numbers  with  resolute  glee,  — 
This  bright  little,  smart  little,  brave  chickadee. 

I  wonder  if  ever  the  world  goes  awry 

With  him  and  his  household,  —  if  cats,  on  the  sly. 

Invade  his  small  homestead  :  how  sad  that  would 

be. 
You  dear  little,  good  little,  brave  chickadee ! 

But  I  think,  even  then,  you  'd  be  out  the  next 

day 
With  the  same  cheery  song ;  and  to  me  it  would 

say, 
"  I  've  had  lots  of  trouble,  but  still,  as  you  see, 
I  'm  the  same  little,  brisk  little,  blithe  chickadee. 

"  They  may  pester  me,  pillage  me,  rout  me  :  what 

then? 
I  can  pluck  up  my  courage  and  try  it  again ; 
Who  talks  of  repining  or  fretting  ?  "  says  he,  — 
This  wise  little,  blithe  little,  brave  chickadee ! 


TO   A   KATYDID 

Sprite,  in  leafy  covert  hid, 

'Twixt  your  "  did  n't "  and  your  "  did," 


TO  A  KATYDID  107 

Simple  folk  are  quite  in  doubt 
What  your  talk  is  all  about. 

"  Did  "  and  '•'  did  nt  !  "     That 's  a  clear 
Contradiction,  Katie,  dear; 
One  would  think  you  scarcely  knew 
Any  odds  between  the  two. 

"  Did  ?  "  but  what  ?     And  where  ?     And  when  ? 
"  Did  n't  I  "     There  you  go  again ! 
Such  a  slippery  little  chit !  — 
After  all,  what  matters  it  ? 

Who  —  do  you  imagine  —  cares, 
Katie,  for  your  small  affairs  ? 
Hold  your  peace  ;  and,  for  the  rest, 
We  11  concede  you  did  your  best. 

If  you  did  n't,  more  's  the  shame ; 
If  you  did,  then  where  's  the  blame  ? 
So  give  o'er :  you  won't  be  chid 
Though  you  did  n't  or  you  did. 

Only  —  your  own  counsel  keep, 
Letting  honest  people  sleep ; 
If  you  did,  then  be  it  so ; 
If  you  did  n't,  let  it  go  I 


108       WBT   CATS    WASH  AFTER  EATING 

WHY   CATS   WASH   AFTER   EATING 

A  CAT,  one  day,  a  sparrow  caught ; 
About  to  eat  her  up, 
*'  Stop  !  "  cried  the  sparrow.     *'  Gentlemen 
Should  wash  before  they  sup." 
Grimalkm  paused.     To  be  presumed 
So  fine  was  rather  nice. 
*'  Quite  true,"  he  said  and  dropped  the  bird, 
To  follow  her  advice. 

Off  flew  the  sparrow.     "  Ah ;  you  rogue," 

Cried  pussy,  in  a  rage, 
"  So  that 's  your  game  ?     But  T  '11  be  wise 

In  future,  I'll  engage  ! 
I  '11  never  wash  before  I  eat. 

But  after."     Which  is  still 
A  fashion  that  the  cats  keep  up, 

And,  doubtless,  always  will. 


WONDER-LAND 

I  WOXDER  what  makes  the  sky  so  blue ; 

I  wonder  what  makes  the  moon  so  bright, 
And  whether  the  lovely  stars  are  born. 

Like  brand-new  babies,  each  summer  night. 

And  why  do  they  hide  when  daylight  comes  ? 
I  wonder  where  in  the  world  they  go ! 


MY  HERITAGE  109 

Perhaps,  when  the  great,  hot  sun  gets  up, 
They  dry  like  dew,  or  they  melt  like  snow. 

I  wonder  what  makes  the  flowers  so  sweet ; 

And  where  do  they  get  their  splendid  dyes  ? 
And  why  should  some  be  as  red  as  blood, 

And  others  blue  as  the  summer  skies  ? 

I  wonder,  too,  —  but  so  much  there  is 
To  puzzle  my  little  head !  —  and  oh, 

I  doubt  if  ever  T  '11  find  out  half 

The  wonderful  tilings  that  I  want  to  know. 


MY  HERITAGE 

I  AM  not  poor  :    I  own  the  seas. 
The  earth  and  all  its  boundaries. 
These  happy  skies  that  o'er  my  head 
Serenely  float,  for  me  were  spread ; 
For  me  this  sun  goes  blazing  through 
Its  path  of  light ;  for  me  the  dew 
Fills,  morn  and  eve,  its  chalice  up ; 
The  tulip  paints  for  me  its  cup ; 
Mine  every  flower  that  decks  the  glade ; 
For  me  the  singing  birds  were  made  ; 
The  winds  that  blow,  blow  soft  for  me, 
For  me  they  pipe  their  stormy  glee  ; 
The  great  woods  hang  their  banners  out 
To  hail  my  coming  thereabout ; 


110  MY  HERITAGE 

At  my  poor  feet,  all  bare  and  brown, 
They  drop  their  nutty  treasures  down  ; 
The  squirrel  —  honest  fellow  he, 
For  all  his  tricks  —  goes  halves  with  me  ; 
He  shares  my  nuts,  and  I  his  glee. 

I  feel  a  very  millionaire, 

Such  wealth  have  I !     The  earth  and  air 

Pay  tribute  to  me  everywhere. 

To  feed  me,  Nature  hangs  her  store 

Of  summer  fruit  about  my  door. 

See  where  her  loaded  trees  incline 

Their  boughs  !  to  pluck  and  eat  is  mine. 

I  ask  not  how  her  plums  unfold 

Their  globes  of  purple  and  of  gold ; 

Nor  how  her  sun-bright  cherries  grow,  — 

Whether  they  toil  and  spin  or  no 

Small  thought  have  I ;  I  but  outreach 

My  hand,  and  lo,  the  golden  peach, 

Sweet  with  the  sweetness  of  the  south, 

Drops  honeyed  ripeness  on  my  mouth. 

Nature,  kind  mother,  —  I  her  heir,  — 

She  cares  for  me  without  my  care : 

For  me  her  rosy  apples  blush. 

Her  perfumed  pears  grow  large  and  lush ; 

From  vines  her  dainty  finger  drapes 

With  green,  she  pulls  me  purple  grapes ; 

She  makes  the  ground  I  walk  on  sweet 

With  blackberries  beneath  my  feet ; 

She  plants  my  path  with  flowers,  and  nods 


MY  HERITAGE  111 

And  smiles  to  me  in  goldenrods 

And  painted  buttercups  ;  she  throws 

Rich  odors  round  the  musky  rose ; 

Or,  coyer  grown,  hides  faint  perfumes 

In  violets  and  arbutus-blooms, 

And  laughs,  through  all  her  realms,  to  see 

How  sweet  her  breath  is  unto  me ! 

She  syllables  in  meadow  brooks 

And  sunny  glades  and  sylvan  nooks 

Love  such  as  never  was  in  books. 

Sweet  priestess,  too,  —  she  reads  to  me 

Her  liturgies  from  every  tree, 

And  chants  her  solemn  service  where 

Her  bluebells  call  to  praise  and  prayer, 

Or  breathes,  through  her  eternal  calms, 

Her  inarticulate,  sweet  psalms. 

She  makes  me  earnest,  grave  or  gay. 

As  suits  her  mood ;  and  yet,  alway 

She  mmisters  to  mine  ;  she  knows 

I  love  all  bright  things,  —  so,  with  shows 

Of  glittering  gold  and  crimson  sheen. 

And  purple,  draped  with  richest  green. 

She  lights  for  me  her  solitudes 

And  paints  my  way  adown  her  woods ; 

She  calls  her  squirrels  out,  to  greet 

My  coming  with  their  frisky  feet ; 

Her  merry  crickets,  too,  to  stir 

The  silence  with  their  tuneful  whir ; 

She  bids  her  birds  with  jocund  song 

Pipe  music  to  me  all  day  long  j 


112  MY  HERITAGE 

For  me  their  prodigal  sweet  notes 
Leap,  liquid,  from  their  golden  throats. 
Thus  fare  I  at  her  hands :  and  so, 
With  feast  and  song  and  royal  show, 
She  waits  on  me  where'er  I  go. 

Even  winter  pays  his  tithe  of  joy 

Into  my  lap.     I  love  the  boy ! 

He  comes  with  boisterous,  honest  mirth, 

And  lights  the  fire  upon  my  hearth ; 

And  while  the  blazing  embers  shine, 

I  crack  my  nuts  and  drink  my  wine 

Of  sweet  content,  —  rejoicing,  still, 

To  let  the  urchin  have  his  will. 

What  though  he  pile  my  path  with  snow  ? 

I  take  my  shovel  down  and  go 

To  earn  my  meal  of  morning  air  ; 

The  veriest  clown  with  me  may  share, 

Nor  pay  a  farthing  for  his  fare. 

And  then  I  take  it  back  in  coin 

Of  health  and  strength,  —  this  toil  of  mine. 

I  get,  in  payment  for  my  pains, 

A  quicker  flow  through  all  my  veins ; 

My  cheeks  a  richer  carmine  show 

Than  French  cosmetics  could  bestow ; 

A  subtle  grace  my  lithe  limbs  gain 

That  rules  of  art  might  teach  in  vain. 

Nor  this  alone  the  urchin  pays 

To  offset  his  uncanny  ways ; 

For  look  you  !  every  frosty  morn. 


MY  HERITAGE 

He  comes  with  jewels  to  adorn 
Each  tree  and  shrub  beside  my  door ; 
I  gaze,  —  I  am  no  longer  poor. 
I  walk  a  king  !     My  cottage  shed 
No  longer  shelters  me  :  instead, 
A  palace  roofs  me,  rich  and  grand, 
Dizened  with  gems  of  every  land. 
A  thousand  glittering  rubies  shine, 
Like  great,  rich  drops  of  frozen  wine. 
Beneath  this  royal  roof  of  mine. 
The  diamond  and  the  opal  flame 
Anear  me  ;  jewels  wanting  name,  — 
So  bright  they  be,  so  rich  and  rare,  — 
Flash  splendor  round  me  everywhere. 

I  shut  my  glory-blinded  eyes 
For  sheer  relief,  —  and  straight  arise 
Thoughts  of  that  glorious  vision  told 
By  John  :  the  city  made  of  gold 
Stands  open  to  my  gaze  ;  I  see 
That  too  was  built  for  me,  for  me ! 
And  while  my  spirit  faints  away 
For  very  joy,  sweet  voices  say, 
"  Thine  is  the  fair,  fruit-bearing  tree, 
Thine  is  the  burning  jasper  sea. 
Thine  the  white  robe,  the  crown,  the  palm, 
Thine  heaven's  serene,  eternal  calm !  " 

The  vision  fades  ;  I  take  again 
Life's  duties  up,  like  other  men ; 
But  oh,  the  perfect  calm,  the  peace 


113 


114  MY  HERITAGE 

That  wraps  me  and  shall  still  increase, 
Until,  this  happy  journey  o'er. 
My  feet  shall  touch  that  shining  shore, 
Shall  touch  and  leave  it  nevermore ! 
So  live  I  on,  contented  still 
To  go  or  stay,  as  suits  His  will ; 
And  singing  in  my  heart  this  song 
Of  sweetness  as  I  pass  along  :  — 

"  Dear  Lord,  if  such  the  earthly  gauge 
Of  my  immortal  heritage. 
If  such  the  imperfect  glimpses  given. 
The  faint  foreshadowings  of  heaven, 
The  taste  of  sweets  in  store  for  me, 
"What  shall  the  full  fruition  be  ? 
And  what  the  treasures  of  Thy  love 
And  grace  laid  up  for  me  above  ? 
I  cannot  tell ;  I  but  believe 
No  tongue  can  speak  nor  heart  conceive 
The  sweetness,  the  surpassing  bliss 
Of  that  world,  far  transcending  this. 
I  cannot  tell ;  I  only  know 
I  own  all  things,  above,  below : 
All  things,  —  and  still,  through  gain  and  loss, 
Through  hero's  crown  and  martyr's  cross, 
I  see  but  one  bright  promise  shine, 
I  read  but  one  illumined  line, 
I  know  but  this,  —  all  things  are  mine !  " 


DO   TIIEY  MISS  ME  AT  HOME?         11- 


DO  THEY  MISS  ME  AT  HOME  ? 

Do  they  miss  me  at  home,  do  they  miss  me  ? 

*T  would  be  an  assurance  most  dear 
To  know  that  this  moment  some  loved  one 

Was  saying,  "  Oil,  were  she  but  here  !  " 
To  know  that  the  grouj)  at  the  fireside 

Were  thinking  of  me  as  I  roam,  — 
Oh  yes,  't  would  be  joy  beyond  measure, 

To  know  that  they  missed  me  at  home ! 

When  twilight  approaches,  —  the  season 

That  ever  was  sacred  to  song,  — 
Does  some  one  repeat  my  name  over, 

And  sigh  that  I  tarry  so  long  ? 
And  is  there  a  chord  in  the  music 

That 's  missed  when  my  voice  is  away  ? 
And  a  chord  in  each  heart  that  awaketh 

Regret  at  my  wearisome  stay  ? 

Do  they  place  me  a  chair  near  the  table 

When  evening's  home-pleasures  are  nigh, 
And  candles  are  lit  in  the  parlor. 

And  stars  in  the  calm  azure  sky  ? 
And  when  the  good-nights  are  repeated, 

Does  each  the  dear  memory  keep, 
And  think  of  the  absent,  and  waft  me 

A  whispered  "  Good-night  "  ere  they  sleep  ? 


116  TEE   GOOD    WIFE 

Do  they  miss  me  at  home,  do  they  miss  me, 

At  morning,  at  noon  and  at  night  ? 
And  lingers  one  gloomy  shade  round  them 

That  only  my  presence  can  light  ? 
Are  joys  less  invitingly  welcomed, 

And  pleasures  less  dear  than  before, 
Because  one  is  missed  from  the  circle,  — ■ 

Because  /  am  with  them  no  more  ? 

Oh  yes  —  they  do  miss  me !     Kind  voices 

Are  calling  me  back  as  I  roam. 
And  eyes  have  grown  weary  with  weeping, 

And  watch  but  to  welcome  me  home  ! 
Sweet  friends,  ye  shall  wait  me  no  longer, 

No  longer  I  '11  linger  behind  ; 
For  how  can  I  tarry,  while  followed 

By  watchings  and  pleadings  so  kind  ? 


THE   GOOD  WIFE 

"A  prudent  wife  is  from  the  Lord."     "Whoso  findeth  a  wife, 
findeth  a  good  thing."  —  Proverbs  of  Solomon. 

Ay,  Lord  !  and  I  do  thank  Thee,  —  sure  that  she 
Whom  I  do  call  "  gude-wife,"  was  sent  by  Thee ; 
And  I  accept  her  humbly,  and  do  make 
This  rude  yet  heartsome  verse  for  her  dear  sake. 

How  fair  she  is,  beseems  not  me  to  tell ; 
Yet  sweet  Rebekah  by  the  ancient  well 


THE   GOOD    WIFE  117 

More  sweet,  more  fair,   more  beauteous  scarce 

could  be, 
Than  is  my  love,  my  fair  one,  unto  me. 

She  sits  with  Mary  at  the  Master's  feet ; 
With  Martha  rises  to  prepare  Him  meat ; 
With  Dorcas  plies  her  needle's  shining  steel 
To  assuage  the  woes  she  cannot  wholly  heal. 

She  maketh  little  coats  with  Hannah's  care. 
And  Hannah's   forethought,   for    the    children's 

wear ; 
And  if  in  Shiloh  ever  they  appear 
Be  sure  the  mother-hand  hath  led  them  there. 

She  plies  the  distaff,  and  with  equal  skill 
Discourseth  music  at  her  own  sweet  will ; 
While  on  her  lips  the  law  of  kindness  reigns, 
And  in  her  heart  the  rule  of  love  obtains. 

She  riseth  while  't  is  night,  —  and  giveth  each 
Theu'  portion ;  and  with  gentle  look  and  speech, 
She  doth  prevent  the  evening  on  the  hill. 
Since,  where  she  smileth,  it  is  daybreak  still ! 

Sweet  mother- wife  !  she  careth  for  us  all ; 
The  little,  lonely  sparrow  on  the  wall 
Sees  the  white  glancing  of  her  hand,  and  straight 
Flies  for  his  portion  at  her  bounteous  gate. 


118  A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 

So  blest  and  blessing,  she  cloth  'mongst  us  move, 
A  sweet  embodiment  of  perfect  love  ; 
I  see  her  white  wings  growing  day  by  day, 
I  almost  hear  heaven  calling,  "  Come  away !  " 

Nay,  nay ;  not  yet,  dear  Lord  !  I  need  her  still ; 
Thou  hast  Thine  angels  on  Thy  holy  hill ; 
Leave,  leave  me  mine,  —  for  yet  a  little  while 
Lend  me  her  hand,  her  voice,  her  gentle  smile. 

For  she  to  me  is  Thine  own  angel  given 
To  show  my  lagging  feet  the  way  to  heaven ; 
She  ministers  to  me  in  such  sweet  guise ! 
I  read  Thy  gospel  in  her  gracious  eyes ! 

Bereft  of  her,  I  doubt  this  grief-dimmed  eye 
The  heavenly  heights  henceforward  could  descry 
For  human  tears !     Then  take  her  not,  I  pray, 
Or  take  me  with  her  up  the  shining  way ! 


A  MOTHER'S   LOVE 

Like  the  first  star  that  heralds  glorious  eve, 
Like  the  first  blush  that  beckons  in  the  day, 

Like  the  first  snowdrop  lavish  Aprils  weave 
To  deck  the  bosom  of  the  festive  May ; 

Like  the  warm  carol  of  the  early  bird 

Whose  note  was  mute  before,  or  idly  heard ; 

Like  all  dear  things  just  bursting ;  like  the  bloom 


BABY'S    WARDROBE  119 

Of  the  first  rosebud  rending  its  green  tomb,  — 
So  burst  thy  love  upon  my  helpless  life, 
Dear  Mother,  when  that  hour  of  pain  and  strife 
That  laid  me  in  thine  arms,  gave  place  to  tears 
Of  exquisite,  sweet  joy  and  holy  fears ! 
Thy  love,  dear  mother,  warmed  me  into  birth, 
Nor  shall  its  ray  depart  while  either  dwells  on 
earth ! 

BABY'S   WARDROBE 

Fold  them  all  up,  the  clothes  she  wore, 
Each  dainty  frock  and  pinafore  : 
She  will  not  wear  them  any  more. 

They  were  all  made  with  my  own  hand  ; 
I  laid  each  plait,  I  wrought  each  band 
With  care  you  could  not  understand. 

"  No  need,"  you  said  ;  "  a  plainer  dress 
Befits  her  years  :  and  Art's  excess 
But  hinders  Nature's  perfectness. 

"  For  see  the  lilies,  how  they  grow,  — 
God  fashioned  them,  and  yet  we  know 
Not  Solomon  was  apparelled  so." 

"  Ay,  see  the  lilies,"  I  replied ; 

"  God  made  them  fair,  and  T  abide 

His  wisdom  who  did  so  decide. 


120  BABY'S    WARDROBE 

"  For  He  loves  beauty  everywhere, 
And  whoso  seeks  to  make  more  fair 
His  work,  works  with  Him  unaware. 

"  The  hint  God  gives  me  I  shall  take, 
And  help,  in  my  poor  way,  to  make 
His  gift  complete  for  His  gift's  sake." 

Oh,  my  own  Lillie !  no  more  dead 
Beneath  the  lilies,  but,  instead, 
All  glory-crowned,  and  habited 

In  shining  raiment  pure  and  white,  — 

I  think  I  sinned  not  in  His  sight 

Who  clothes  you  now  with  robes  of  light ; 

I  think  I  did  not  err  in  aught 
Because,  with  mother-care  and  thought 
(Perhaps  with  mother-pride),  I  sought 

To  link  with  your  sweet  babyhood 

All  sweet  surroundings,  —  good  with  good, 

Lovely  with  lovely,  —  as  I  should. 

The  angels  have  you  now ;  you  wear 
Robes  fashioned  with  more  subtle  care, 
And  fairer,  whiter  than  these  are. 

I  fret  not,  sweet !  a  strange  content 
Is  with  my  daily  yearnings  blent ; 
For,  thinking  of  the  way  you  went, 


THE  CHILD'S  LAST   WISH  121 

I  see  no  dismal  valley,  black 
With  terrors,  —  but  a  shining  track 
And  a  white  angel  looking  back ! 


"ONLY   ME" 

A  LITTLE  figure  glided  through  the  hall ; 

"  Is  that  you,  Pet  ?  "  the  words  came  tenderly : 
A  sob  —  suppressed  to  let  the  answer  fall  — 

"  It  is  n't  Pet,  mamma ;  it 's  only  me." 

The  quivering  baby  lips !  they  had  not  meant 
To  utter  any  word  could  plant  a  sting, 

But  to  that  mother-heart  a  strange  pang  went ; 
She  heard,  and  stood  like  a  convicted  thing ! 

One  instant,  and  a  happy  little  face 

Thrilled  'neath  unwonted  kisses  rained  above : 
And,  fi'om  that  moment,  "  Only  Me  "  had  place 

And  part  with  "  Pet "  in  tender  mother-love. 


THE  CHILD'S   LAST  WISH 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  the  day  is  done ; 
Rapidly  sinketh  the  setting  sun,  — 
While  on  the  wings  of  the  passing  hours, 
Lingers  the  breath  of  the  shutting  flowers. 
Mother,  dear  mother,  before  I  die, 


122  THE  CHILD'S  LAST   WISH 

Throw  up  the  sash  to  the  clear  night  sky ; 

Fain  would  I  whisper  a  last  farewell 

To  the  gentle  flowers  that  I  loved  so  well." 

The  mother  rose  with  a  tearful  eye, 

And  tlu-ew  up  the  sash  to  the  evening  sky. 

*'  Mother,  dear  mother,  they  all  are  there 

With  their  gentle  eyes  and  their  foreheads  fair ; 

Lily  and  violet,  myrtle  and  rose. 

Laying  them  down  to  their  night's  repose. 

Mother,  I  wish  I  could  pass  away 

From  this  lovely  earth  with  the  dying  day ! 

How  sweet  to  be  borne  to  celestial  bowers 

On  the  pleasant  breath  of  the  fainting  flowers !  " 

The  mother  turned  with  an  anxious  eye, 
And  gazed  on  her  darling  tearfully. 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  I  fain  would  rest, 

Pillowed  once  more  on  your  lovmg  breast. 

Dark  to  my  vision  is  twilight  now, 

Cold  are  the  shadows  that  jjress  my  brow. 

Mother,  dear  mother,  your  gentle  face 

Mid  the  thick  darkness  no  more  I  trace ; 

Death  is  around  me,  —  farewell !  I  roam 

On  the  breath  of  flowers  to  my  heavenly  home." 

The  mother  gazed,  but  her  tears  were  dried ; 
Her  child,  with  the  fainting  blossoms,  died. 


MAY  DREAMS  123 


MAY   DREA^IS 

"  Where  have  you  been,  this  long,  bright  day  ?  " 

I  said  last  night  to  a  tired  child ; 
"  I  've  been  to  the  woods  to  see  if  May 

Is  coming,"  she  said,  and  gravely  smiled. 

"  And  what  did  you  find,  sweet  searcher,  —  what  ? 

How  did  the  woods  reward  your  quest?  " 
*'  I  found  one  blue  forget-me-not. 

And  a  robin  thinking  about  his  nest ; 

"  And  springing  grasses  and  clover-shoots, 

And  a  bluebird  singing  overhead ; 
Violets  under  some  gnarled  old  roots, 

And  nodding  columbines  white  and  red ; 

"  Some  star-flowers,  too,  by  a  shady  pool, 

Such  wee,  white  things  I  and  I  bathed  my  feet 

In  a  dancing  rivulet,  clear  and  cool, 

And  I  gathered  ferns  and  mosses  sweet ; 

"Oh,  and  so  many  things  besides  ! 

But  now  I  am  tii'ed,  please,  —  good  night !  " 
And  she  lays  her  hand  in  mine  and  glides 

Gently,  gracefully  out  of  sight. 

But  her  last  words  haunt  me,  soft  and  low,  — 
"  Oh,  and  so  many  things  besides !  " 


124  MABEL'S   CURE 

Ah,  sweet  dreamer !  you  little  know 
All  the  meaning  that  in  them  hides  \ 

Faith  in  an  end  as  yet  unseen, 

Boundless  trust  in  a  promised  good,  — 

These  were  the  spoils  that  you  brought  yestreen, 
Richest  of  all,  from  that  dim  old  wood  ! 

Build,  O  robin,  your  downy  nest! 

Sing,  O  bluebird,  and  dance,  O  stream ! 
Spring,  all  green  things,  and  own  her  quest ! 

Come,  O  May-time,  and  crown  her  dream ! 


MABEL'S   CURE 

"  The  world  is  even  as  we  take  it, 

And  life,  dear  child,  is  what  we  make  it.' 

Thus  spoke  a  grand  am  e,  bent  with  care, 
To  little  Mabel,  flushed  and  fair. 

But  Mabel  took  no  heed  that  day. 
Of  what  she  heard  her  grandame  say. 

Years  after,  when,  no  more  a  child. 
Her  path  in  life  seemed  dark  and  wild, 

Back  to  her  heart  the  memory  came 
Of  that  quaint  utterance  of  the  dame  : 


A  MEMORY  125 

"  The  world,  dear  child,  is  as  we  take  it, 
And  life,  be  sure,  is  what  we  make  it." 

She  cleared  her  brow :  and  smiling,  thought, 
*'  'T  is  even  as  the  good  soul  taught ! 

"  And  half  my  woes  thus  quickly  cured, 
The  other  half  may  be  endured." 

No  more  her  heart  its  shadow  wore ; 
She  grew  a  little  child  once  more. 

A  little  child  in  love  and  trust. 

She  took  the  world,  —  as  we,  too,  must,  — 

In  happy  mood  ;  and  lo  !  it  grew 
Brighter  and  brighter  to  her  view ! 

She  made  of  life  —  as  we,  too,  should  — 
A  joy  ;  and  lo  !  all  things  were  good ! 


A   MEMORY 

"  And  tho'  a  thousand  read  these  lines, 
But  twain  shall  understand."' 

I  HAD  a  friend  once,  and  she  was  to  me 
What  fragrance  is  to  flowers,  or  song  to  birds, 
Part  of  my  being :  but  there  came  a  time 
(I  cannot  tell  you  how,  or  when,  or  where), 


126  A  MEMORY 

A  time  that  severed  us.     There  was  no  fierce, 
Hot  trouble  at  our  parting.     It  was  calm, 
Because  it  was  so  gradual.     Ere  I  knew, 
We  had  grown  cold  at  meeting,  colder  still 
At  our  good-by.     But,  looking  on  it  now. 
After  long  years,  I  marvel  at  it  all, 
And  weep  more  tears  than  I  did  then,  by  far, 
Over  this  strange,  sad  parting,  this  blank  wreck 
Of  love,  and  hope,  and  friendship,  and  warm 

trust. 
Oh,  it  is  pitiful,  —  this  breaking  up 
Of  human  sympathy  and  sweet  heart-tryst ! 
Had  we  so  many  friends  —  this  friend  and  I  — 
That  we  could  well  afford  to  give  the  slip 
Each  to  the  other  ?  drifting  thus  apart. 
Like  ships  that  meet  upon  some  tropic  sea 
For  one  brief  passing  hour,  exchange  stale  news, 
Gossip  of  cargoes,  or  the  last-made  port, 
Then  sail  away,  each  on  its  separate  course, 
And  never  dream,  nor  care,  to  meet  again ! 

I  think  the  heart  grows  chary  of  its  friends, 

As  years  and  death  do  steal  them  from  our  grasp ; 

I  could  not  let  a  friend  go  now  as  I 

Did   then ;    for   I   was    thoughtless    then    and 

young. 
Ah  well !     I  wonder  if  she  cares,  or  if 
She  ever  thinks  of  those  old,  foolish  days 
When,  with  her  hand  in  mine,  we  sat  and  talked, 
And  kissed  each  other  'twixt  our  happy  words. 


THE  REASON  127 

And  vowed  "  eternal  friendship,"  —  endless  trust. 

It  may  be  so  ;  and  if  this  idle  verse 

(Albeit  not  so  idle  as  it  seems), 

Should   meet   her   eye,  —  I  would,  I  would   it 

might !  — 
She  too  may  give  a  sigh  to  those  old  days. 
And  wish,  with  me,  that  one  had  been  more  true, 
And  both  more  patient,  —  that  the  olden  time 
Had  less  of  bitterness  mixed  with  its  sweet. 
Making  the  after-draught  so  drugged  with  pain 
That,  even  now,  tears  come  because  of  it. 


THE   REASON 

Dear  Love,  bear  with  me  that  so  long 
My  harp  has  lain  unstrung,  unswept, 
Since  to  have  waked  it  while  it  slept 

Had  been  to  do  my  nature  wrong. 

How  could  I  pour  in  measured  chime 
My  brimming  love's  intensity  ? 
Or  level  one  dear  thought  of  thee 

To  the  low  stature  of  a  rhyme  ? 

Enough  that  in  my  heart's  deep  well 
Lies  love  by  language  yet  unstirred, 
Unfathomed  yet  by  any  word, 

Beyond  what  lip  of  mine  can  tell. 


128  REQUITAL 

Then  bear  with  me,  nor  chiding  say, 
"  Why  thus  ?  "  but  rather,  "  Be  it  so  ; 
Let  words,  the  froth  of  feeling,  go ; 

Her  love  lies  deeper  far  than  they." 


REQUITAL 

[A.  W.  B.] 

The  violets  are  growing  on  her  grave 
Who  last  year  gave  me  roses  dewy-cool, 

Saying,  "  Take  these,  dear  heart,  and  these :  to 
have 
And  not  bestow,  were  but  a  sorry  rule." 

And  so  she  rained  them  on  me  as  she  clung 
To  the  light  lattice,  —  clusters  red  and  white 

And  palest  pink,  in  musky  showers  down-flung. 
Till   the   June    air   grew   moist  with   coming 
night. 

And  now  she  lies  the  violets  below, 

And  June,  with  all  its  roses,  cannot  stir 

One  pulse  of  her  sweet  being :  let  them  go ! 
They  bloom  in  vain  for  me,  since  not  for  her. 

And  yet  not  quite  in  vain,  my  heart,  —  not  quite  ; 
For    when    these    buds,    slow-trembling    into 
bloom. 


RECONCILIATION—  IN  MEMORIAM     129 

Open  their  bosoms  to  the  soft  June  light 
Gilding  alike  their  beauty  and  her  tomb, 

'T  will  be  my  turn  to  pluck  them  ;  I  shall  go 
With  brimful   hands,   some   June  day,  where 
she  lies, 
And   shower  them  o'er  her,  weeping  :    will  she 
know 
The  sweet  requital  in  those  far-off  skies  ? 


RECONCILIATION 

If  thou  wert  lying  cold  and  stiU  and  white 

In  death's  embraces,  0  mine  enemy  ! 

I  think  that  if  I  came  and  looked  on  thee, 
I  should  forgive  ;  that  something  in  the  sight 
Of  thy  still  face  would  conquer  me,  by  right 

Of  death's  sad  im^Dotence,  and  I  should  see 

How  pitiful  a  thing  it  is  to  be 
At  feud  with  aught  that 's  mortal. 

So  to-night, 
My  soul,  unfurling  her  white  flag  of  peace. 

Forestalling  that  dread   hour   when    we   may 
meet,  — 

The  dead  face  and  the  living,  —  fain  would  cry, 
Across  the  years,  "  Oh,  let  our  warfare  cease  ! 

Life  is  so  short,  and  hatred  is  not  sweet : 

Let  there  be  peace  between  us  ere  we  die !  " 


130  IN  ME M OR  r AM 


IN   MEMORIAM 

Last  year  we  watched  the  robins  build, 
The  mated  robins  glad  and  free  : 
To-day  my  eyes  with  tears  are  filled ; 
Once  more  the  mated  robins  build, 

But  she  is  gone  who  watched  with  me. 

Last  year  we  walked  and  gathered  flowers 

Together,  blossoms  wan  and  wee, 
Arbutus  blooms  ;  but  now  the  hours 
May  pass,  —  ungathered  grow  the  flowers, 
For  she  is  gone  who  walked  with  me. 

0  grave,  sweet  face,  with  eyes  of  brown 
That  wistful  still  do  turn  to  me, 

1  cannot  bid  your  image  down  ! 

Go  where  I  will,  your  eyes  of  brown 
Still  follow,  and  still  yearn  to  me. 


Sometimes  her  favorite  air  I  jDlay, 
And  wonder,  as  I  wake  the  strings. 

If  spirits  passed  from  earth  away 
Are  touched  by  earthly  things. 

Then  I  recall  her  words  that  fell 

One  night,  "  That  lovely  melody 
You  never  j^lay  one  half  so  well 
For  others  as  for  me." 


THE   GRAVE  BY  THE  EUXINE  131 

I  never  play  it  now,  dear  heart, 

Without  a  throb  half  joy,  half  pain,  — 

As  if  you,  somehow,  stood  apart 
And  listened  to  the  strain. 

I  know  how  ravishing  must  be 

Heaven's  music  in  your  happy  ears, 

Yet  something  whispers  low  to  me, 
"  Play  on  :  she  hears  !  she  hears !  " 

Then  how  the  sweet  notes  throb  and  swell 
Beneath  my  touch !     Dear  heart,  't  is  true : 

I  never  play  one  half  so  well 
For  others  as  for  you  ! 


THE   GRAVE   BY   THE   EUXINE 

[H.  B.  S.] 

I  TOOK  from  my  garden  a  rosebud ; 

It  was  sweet,  it  was  fair ; 
I  wore  it  awhile  on  my  bosom ; 

It  perished  there. 

"  From  whence  comes  this  exquisite  fragrance  ? 

Then  I  said,  —  for,  in  part, 
I  'd  forgotten  the  beautiful  rosebud 

I  wore  on  my  heart. 


132  AROMA 

And  it  answered  me,  —  leaf  by  leaf  drooping, 

Fading  still,  fading  slow,  — 
"  Unmeasured  in  life,  my  full  sweetness 

Death  makes  you  know  !  " 

And  I  thought  of  a  grave  by  the  Euxine, 

And  my  tears  fell  like  rain : 
But  roses  will  wither,  and  loved  ones 

Return  not  again. 


AROMA 

[H.  B.  S.] 

O  FAIREST  rose,  whose  fragrant,  dying  breath 
Fills  my  hushed  room !  thou  mind'st  me,  fad- 
ing there. 
Of  one  who  kept  as  sweet  a  tryst  with  death 
After  a  life  as  fair. 

This  friend  —  few  peers  she  had  —  we  could  di- 
vine 
Her  presence  by  a  secret,  subtle  sense 
Of  something  pure  about  us,  rare  and  fine, 
And  clean  of  all  pretence. 

And  if  she  joyed  or  wept  with  us,  anon 

Our  joy  grew  deeper ;  and  anon  our  tears, 
Sunned  by  her  sweetness,  rainbow  hues  took  on, 
And  spanned  our  cloudy  fears. 


DISSOLVING    VIEWS  133 

No  spell  occult,  no  secret  marvellous, 

She  held ;  yet  wrought,  as  by  a  hint  divine, 
The  old  time  miracle,  and  turned  for  us 
Life's  water  into  wine. 

O  brief,  bright  life  !  —  exhaling  as  it  fled 

Undying  fragrance  —  leaving  to  our  keep 
Such  sweetness  that  we  cannot  hold  her  dead, 
For  all  these  tears  we  weep. 

Poor  tears  !  poor  words,  our  grief  that  cannot  tell ! 
And  yet  that   grief  were  scant  which  words 
could  speak : 
So  rills  outbabble  rivers  ;  it  is  well ; 
Let  words  for  us  be  weak. 

Fade,  fairest  rose  !  all  the  hushed  air  around 

Is  sweet  because  of  thee ;  and  thou,  O  friend. 
Because  of  thee  all  earth  is  holy  ground, 
And  shall  be  to  the  end. 


DISSOLVING  VIEWS 

When  I  have  been  lonor  sfone,  if  one  I  love, 
And  who  loves  me,  shall  chance  upon  a  ring. 
That  I  have  worn,  or  any  simple  thing,  — 

A  knot  of  ribbon,  or  a  faded  glove,  — 

I  wonder  if  the  sight  of  it  will  move 

To  fond  remembrance,  and  if  tears  will  spring. 
And  if  the  sudden  memory  will  bring 

A  sudden  sadness  over  field  and  grove. 


134  WHEN  I  AM  OLD 

Perhaps :  and  yet  how  quickly  we  forget ! 

And  how  new  scenes,  new  faces  that  we  meet, 
Crowd  out  the  old,  —  until  the  world  grows 
gay 
Above  forgotten  graves.     Softest  regret 

Grows  stale  by  keeping ;   and,  however  sweet. 
No  past  has  quite  the  sweetness  of  to-day. 


WHEN   I  AM  OLD 

Wheis"  I  am  old,  —  and  oh,  how  soon 
Will  life's  sweet  morning  yield  to  noon. 
And  noon's  broad,  fervid,  earnest  light 
Be  shrouded  in  the  solemn  night ; 
Till  like  a  story  well-nigh  told. 
Will  seem  my  life  —  when  I  am  old. 

When  I  am  old  this  breezy  earth 
Will  lose  for  me  its  voice  of  mirth  ; 
The  streams  will  have  an  undertone 
Of  sadness,  not  by  right  their  own  ; 
And  spring's  sweet  power  in  vain  unfold 
In  rosy  charms  —  when  I  am  old. 

When  I  am  old  I  shall  not  care 
To  deck  with  flowers  my  faded  hair ; 
'T  will  be  no  vain  desire  of  mine. 
In  rich  and  costly  dress  to  shine  : 
Bright  jewels  and  the  brightest  gold 
Will  charm  me  naught  when  I  am  old. 


WHEN  I  AM  OLD  135 

When  I  am  old  my  friends  will  be 
Old  and  infirm  and  bowed,  like  me  ; 
Or  else,  their  bodies  'neath  the  sod, 
Their  spirits  dwelling  safe  with  God,  — 
The  old  church  bell  will  long  have  tolled 
Above  their  rest,  when  I  am  old. 

"When  I  am  old  I  'd  rather  bend 
Thus  sadly  o'er  each  buried  friend, 
Than  see  them  lose  the  earnest  truth 
That  marks  the  friendship  of  our  youth ; 
'T  will  be  so  sad  to  have  them  cold 
Or  strange  to  me,  when  I  am  old  ! 

When  I  am  old !  oh,  how  it  seems 
Like  the  wild  lunacy  of  dreams. 
To  picture,  in  prophetic  rhyme. 
That  dim,  far-distant,  shadowy  time  ; 
So  distant  that  it  seems  o'erbold 
Even  to  say  —  ''  When  I  am  old !  " 

When  I  am  old  ?  perhaps  ere  then, 
I  shall  be  missed  from  haunts  of  men ; 
Perhaps  my  dwelling  will  be  found 
Beneath  the  green  and  quiet  mound  ; 
My  name  by  stranger  hands  enrolled 
Among  the  dead,  ere  I  am  old  ! 

Ere  I  am  old  ?  that  time  is  now, 
For  youth  sits  lightly  on  my  brow ; 


136  THE  SUNDIAL 

My  limbs  are  firm,  and  strong,  and  free ; 
Life  has  a  thousand  charms  for  me,  — 
Charms  that  will  long  their  influence  hold 
Within  my  heart  ere  I  am  old. 

Ere  I  am  old,  oh,  let  me  give 

My  life  to  learning  how  to  live  ! 

Then  shall  I  meet  with  willing  heart 

An  early  summons  to  depart, 

Or  find  my  lengthened  days  consoled 

By  God's  sweet  peace,  when  I  am  old. 


THE   SUNDIAL 

Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas." —  Inscription  on  an  old  sun- 


dial. 


"  *  I  NOTE  the  bright  hours  as  they  fly 
And  let  the  dark  uncounted  die.' 
Wise  words  !  "  said  one,  as  we  rode  by 
Where,  on  an  ancient  dial,  scrolled 
In  arabesque  and  carved  in  gold, 
Shone  out  that  motto,  quaint  and  old. 

"  Wise  words  and  brave  !  "  and  cheerily 
Her  laugh  rang  out :  and  yet  to  me 
They  hold  scant  wisdom.     Can  it  be 
That  both  had  knowledge  to  divine. 
And  that  her  eyes  had  read  the  sign, 
With  insight  clear  and  true  as  mine  ? 


A    CHRISTMAS  LEGEND  137 

Each  for  herself :  no  doubt  I  lack 
Where  she  abounds.     But  looking  back 
Along  life's  ever  varying  track, 
For  me  its  dim  and  clouded  ways 
Outvalue  all  the  garish  blaze 
That  lighted  up  its  shining  days ; 

Because  they  opened  to  my  sight 
(As  stars  are  only  seen  by  night) 
Great  vistas  of  celestial  light ; 
Visions  that  darkness  made  my  own, 
Glimpses  of  things  I  had  not  known 
But  for  the  shadows  round  me  thrown. 


A  CHRISTMAS   LEGEND 

Hermann,    the    charcoal  -  burner,    went    home 

through  the  forest  one  night, 
The  snow  was  falling  about  him  like  a  great  veil 

soft  and  white : 
'T  was  the  eve  of  the  blessed  Christmas,  and  his 

heart  was  glad  and  light. 

For  he  said,  "  The  wife  and  the  children  are  wait- 
ing me,  I  know. 

And  the  lamps  were  lit  on  the  fir-tree  full  half  an 
hour  ago,  — 

I  can  almost  see  them  gleaming  through  the  white 
mist  of  the  snow." 


138  A    CHRISTMAS  LEGEND 

But  suddenly  a  faint  wailing  fell  upon  Hermann's 
ear,  — 

Was  it  the  wind  in  the  branches  ?  was  it  a  cause- 
less fear 

Born  of  the  night  and  the  darkness  ?  The  old 
man  paused  to  hear. 

It  was  not  a  causeless  terror,  it  was  not  the 
branches  bare, 

Tossing  their  arms  in  the  windy  and  desolate  win- 
ter air ; 

'T  was  the  voice  of  a  wailing  baby,  innocent, 
sweet  and  fair. 

"  Scantily  clothed  and  shivering,  sobbing  alone  in 

the  snow. 
Why  have  they  left  thee,  sweet  one  ?  "  the  old 

man  murmured  low. 
*'  See,  I  will  take  thee  homeward !     Little  one, 

wilt  thou  go  ?  " 

So  he  pressed  the  weeping  baby  close  to  his  own 

gaunt  form, 
And   sheltered  it  in  his  bosom,  away  from  the 

smiting  storm. 
Till  he  reached  his  home  by  the  forest,  where  the 

Christmas  lights  gleamed  warm. 

And  the  good  wife  gave  heart- welcome,  while 
higher  still  she  piled 


A   CHRISTMAS  LEGEND  139 

The    board    that   vrith   Christmas   gladness    and 

Christmas  plenty  smiled, 
And  the  children  gathered  around  him  to  gaze  at 

the  little  child,  — 

The   little  desolate  wanderer  brought  from  the 

forest  gloom ; 
They  showed  him  the  pretty  fir-tree  blazing  with 

light  and  bloom, 
At  the  board  with  its  smiling  plenty  they  gave 

the  stranger  room,  — 

Gazing  and  gazing  upon  him,  the  child  so  won- 
drous fair, 

"With  his  clear  blue  eyes  so  sliining,  his  cluster- 
ing, golden  hair, 

Till,  gazing,  a  sudden  glory  illumined  all  the  air  ! 

For  over  the  curls  so  golden,  a  halo  grew  and 

grew, 
The  soft  eyes  "beamed  new  lustre,  two  white  wings 

blossomed  through 
The  tips  of  the  lovely  shoulders,  —  then,  gliding 

from  theii*  view, 

Spreading  white  hands  of  blessing,  the  beautiful 

vision  fled  I 
And  Hermann  knew  of  a  surety,  even  as  Christ 

has  said, 
"  Who  helpeth  the  poor  and  needy,  helpeth  the 

Lord  instead." 


142  TEE   OUTCAST 

A  wailing  soul  looked  out  from  eyes 
Born  blind  to  all  sweet  sanctities,  — 
As  if  life's  husks  even  to  her 
Too  meagre,  poor  and  bitter  were ; 

As  if  despite  her  wretchedness 

And  wrongs,  she  asked  not  for  redress, 

So  much  as  pity,  guidance,  light, 

A  chance  to  grope  her  way  aright, 

If  haply  even  for  her  might  shine 
Some  glimmering  of  a  light  divine. 
Some  faint,  heaven-lighted,  faltering  ray 
Slow-leading  to  a  brighter  day. 

I  saw  the  hunger  in  her  face. 

And  loathing  in  my  soul  gave  place 

To  instant,  yearning  love,  akin 

To  his  who  said,  "  You  without  sin,  — 

If  such  there  be,  —  the  first  stone  cast !  " 
And,  all  my  weakness  overpast. 
Obedient  to  the  heavenly  word. 
My  oil  and  wine  I  freely  poured. 

I  housed  her,  fed  her,  clothed  her,  brought 
Garments  that  my  own  hands  had  wrought ; 
Till,  'neath  my  ministries,  she  grew 
Transfigured  to  my  pitying  view. 


AMIN,  THE  MISER  143 

In  her  poor  form  I  but  descried 
A  little  one  for  whom  Christ  died, 
And  Mercy  infinite  stole  in, 
With  her  white  hand  and  hid  the  sin ; 

Or,  rather,  held  it  to  my  view 
And  bade  me  look  as  angels  do,  — 
Joying  o'er  one  who  finds  the  way 
More  than  o'er  crowds  who  never  stray. 

So,  mingling  with  her  tears  my  own, 
We  knelt  before  one  common  throne 
And,  "  God  be  merciful  to  me, 
A  sinner !  "  was  her  only  plea. 

Thus  clinging  to  his  garment's  hem 
Who  came  to  pity,  not  condemn, 
He  bade  her  sobs  convulsive  cease. 
And  whispered,  "Daughter,  go  in  peace.'* 

Oh  sweet  and  gracious  sacrament 
Of  love !     I  blessed  her  as  she  went, 
And  felt  new  life  within  me  stir 
Because  of  that  new-given  to  her ! 


AMIN,  THE   MISER 

Long  centuries  ago  —  so  runs  the  tale  — 
There  raged  a  frightful  famine  in  the  land 


144  AMIN,  TEE  MISER 

Fed  by  the  fruitful  Nile :  from  morn  till  eve, 
From  evening  until  morn,  a  starving  crowd,  — 
Mothers  with  babies  wailing  at  their  breasts. 
Pinched,  pallid  children,  men  grown  gaunt  with 

want,  — 
Besieged  the  granaries  that  the  rich  had  filled 
From  the  last  plenteous  harvest,  —  offering  stores 
Of  gold  and  gear  and  precious  household  goods 
For  but  a  handful  of  the  yellow  grain 
Piled  up  so  high  within.     So,  one  by  one, 
The  great  doors  opened  to  the  clamorous  pleas 
Of  the  poor,  starving  wretches,  hunger-mad. 

At  length  but  one  remained,  but  one  of  all 
The  vast  storehouses  that  the  rich  had  filled 
Against  the  time  of  need,  —  and  that  was  owned 
By  Amin,  the  old  miser.     Day  by  day 
He  sat  upon  its  steps,  watching  the  march 
Of  the  great  famine  fiend,  —  with  hellish  greed 
Deep-calculating  how  he  might  extort, 
Through  man's  sore  need,  the  greatest  usury 
Out  of  God's  loving  bounty ;  day  by  day, 
The  desperate  people  clamored  at  the  gates, 
Beseeching  him  for  charity's  sweet  sake. 
To  give  them  but  a  morsel  in  exchange 
For  wealth  laid  up  against  old  age  and  want 
Through  years  of  toil.     The  old  man  only  jeered : 

"  What !  would  ye  have  me  yield  my  precious 
stores, 


AMIN,  THE  MISER  145 

Worth  twice,  nay,  thrice  their  weight  in  yellow 

gold,  — 
To  such  poor  pittance?  nay,  bring  more,  bring 

more  ! 
All  that  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for  life ; 
And  that  is  what  I  sell  ye  —  life,  life,  life  !  " 

Oh,  pitiless !  the  starving  creatures  heard, 
And   homeward   crawled   with    all    their    little 

strength, 
Bringing  back  gold,  more  gold,  —  until,  at  last. 
Even  the  miser-soul  of  this  old  man 
Was  satisfied.     With  cruel,  mocking  zeal, 
He  hastes  to  open,  —  but  recoils  aghast 
As  the  great  doors  slide  back.     Oh,  judgment 

meet! 
For  heaven  had  sent  the  worm  into  his  corn ; 
And  now,  instead  of  piles  of  golden  wheat, 
A  festering  mass,  —  corruption,  rottenness,  — 
Is  all  that  meets  his  horror-stricken  sight ! 

Starved   as   they  were,  the  waiting,   longing 
crowd 
Raised  a  great  shout  of  triumph  at  the  sure 
And  manifest  judgment ;  Amin  heard  it  not ; 
For  God  had  smitten  him,  and  he  had  died, 
Down-stricken  in  his  evil  hour  of  pride. 


146  A   VOICE  FOR  THE  POOR 


A  VOICE  FOR  THE  POOR 

Put  out  the  light 

And  look  into  the  night, 
Raise  the  curtain  high  and  higher, 
Quench  the  glare  of  the  blinding  fire, 
So  may  we  look  to  our  heart's  desire 

Into  the  night ! 
Into  the  face  of  the  black,  black  night. 

What  a  sight ! 
Earth  seems  maddened  with  affright ! 
Hear  the  wild  wind  shrieking,  roaring, 
Mercy  from  the  storm  imploring, 
The  merciless  storm  that  never  hears 
The  wild  wind  pleading  in  his  ears. 
Praying  for  a  Httle  space, 
A  little  slackening  in  the  race. 
But  the  pitiless  sleet  keeps  flying  on 
Here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
Challenging  the  weary  air 
To  another  race  now  this  is  won. 
Merciless  storm,  we  pray  thee,  hark 

To  the  wild  wind's  praying ; 
Listen  through  the  dreary  dark 

To  what  his  pleading  lips  are  saying : 

*'  Oh,  the  poor. 

The  poor  and  old, 
On  the  moor 

And  on  the  wold,  — 


A  VOICE  FOR  TEE  POOR  147 

How  desolate  they  are  to-night  and  cold ! 

—  I  have  been 

To  the  cottage  in  the  glen, 

I  whirled  around  the  crazy  shed 

Where  the  children  were  all  a-bed, 

And  I  could  hear  them  moan  and  weep, 

For  they  could  not  sleep. 

*  We  cannot  sleep,'  said  they. 

'  Father  is  out  on  the  stormy  bay, 
And  the  night  is  dark  and  the  sea  is  deep ; 

Would  God  that  it  were  day ! ' 
What  more  the  little  children  said 

I  cannot  say, 

For  I  stopped  my  ears  and  whirled  away 
To  pray  in  thine  instead 

For  a  little  space, 

A  little  slackenmg  in  the  race, 
That  so  the  weeping  children  may 

Behold  again  their  father's  face, 
Returning  with  the  morning's  ray 
Back  from  the  stormy  bay." 

But  the  merciless  sleet  keeps  flying  on 

Here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

Challenging  the  weary  air 
To  another  race  now  this  is  won. 
Merciless  storm,  we  pray  thee,  hark 

To  the  wild  wind's  praying  ; 
Listen  through  the  dreary  dark 

To  what  his  pleading  lips  are  saying : 


148  A  VOICE  FOE   THE  POOR 

"  Oh,  the  poor, 

The  poor  and  old, 
On  the  moor 

And  on  the  wold,  — 
How  desolate  they  are  to-night  and  cold ! 
—  I  met  a  traveller  on  the  hill,  — 
An  old  man,  faint  and  very  chill  — 
Hoary  with  age  and  hoarier  still 
With  the  white,  blinding  snow 
That  over  his  hoary  locks  did  blow. 
Pity  the  traveller  old  and  gray ! 
Maybe  he  has  pushed  all  day 

Through  the  driving  storm  and  sleet ; 
Maybe  he  has  lost  his  way. 
And  his  shivering  feet. 
How  they  must  long  and  ache  to  greet 
The  glowing  fireside's  genial  heat ! 
Pity  the  traveller  old  and  gray. 
Pity  the  faint  old  man,  I  pray." 

But  the  merciless  sleet  keeps  flying  on 

Here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

Challenging  the  weary  air 
To  another  race  now  this  is  won. 
Merciless  storm,  we  pray  thee,  hark 

To  the  wild  wind's  praying ; 
Listen  through  the  dreary  dark 

To  what  his  pleading  lips  are  saying : 

"  Oh,  the  poor, 

The  poor  and  old. 


A  VOICE  FOR   THE  POOR  149 

On  the  moor 

And  on  the  wold,  — 
How  desolate  they  are  to-night  and  cold ! 
—  I  peeped  into  the  broken  panes, 
Where  the  snow  and  sleet  and  rains 
Of  many  a  weary  year  have  stolen 
Till  the  sashes  are  smeared  and  soaked  and 

swollen ; 
Little  children  with  tangled  hair. 
And  lips  a^vry  and  feet  half  bare. 

Huddled  around  the  smouldering  fire. 
Like  beasts  half  crouching  in  their  lair ; 

"While    each    the    while    by    stealth    drew 
nigher 
Covetous  of  the  others'  share. 

Oh,  't  was  a  pitiful  sight  to  see  ! 
And  mothers  too  were  there 

With  infants  shivering  on  their  knee, 
Or  closer  held  with  a  mother's  care. 
Or  laid  to  rest  with  a  hurried  prayer, 
A  moan,  half  hope  and  half  despair, 
A  muttered  '  Pitiless  storm,  forbear.'  " 

But  the  merciless  sleet  keeps  flying  on 

Here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

Challenging  the  weary  air 
To  another  race  now  this  is  won. 
Yet  over  all,  through  sleet  and  rain, 
I  seem  so  hear  this  low  refrain. 
This  sobbing,  desolate,  direful  strain : 


150  A  VOICE  FOR  TEE  POOR 

^'  Oh,  the  poor, 

The  poor  and  old, 
On  the  moor 

And  on  the  wold,  — 
How  desolate  they  are  to-night  and  cold !  " 
And  I  sit  and  muse  at  my  window  still, 
And  strain  my  eyes  to  the  distant  hill 
In  search  of  the  traveller  old  and  chill ; 
For  I  long  to  brush  from  his  shivering  form 
The  angry  curse  of  the  hoary  storm, 
And  take  him  in  from  the  snow  and  sleet, 
And  wrap  his  aching  feet 
In  soft,  old  moccasins,  snug  and  warm ; 
And  fain,  too,  would  I  go 
Through  the  drifted  banks  of  snow, 

To  the  crazy  shed  in  the  dismal  glen. 
Where  the  children  are  moaning  so, 
And  whisper  words  of  hope  and  cheer, 
How  that  the  storm,  though  bleak  and  drear. 
Perchance  by  morning  light  will  clear, 

Bringing  the  father  home  again. 
And  in  the  alleys  and  wet  lanes 

Where  freezing  children  huddle  together, 
'T  were  almost  worth  my  pains 

To  face  this  desperate  weather, 
If  but  the  wish  to  show  them  good 
Would  pile  on  the  blazing  wood 
And  give  them  shelter,  and  clothes,  and  food ! 
But  here  I  sit  at  my  window  still, 
With  nothing  to  show  but  a  hearty  will 


A   VOICE  FOR   THE  POOR  151 

And  earnest  longing  to  help  them  each, 
Though  far  beyond  my  reach ; 
While  still  the  wind's  low,  sobbing  strain 
Keeps  smiting  my  ear  with  its  sad  refrain : 

"  Oh,  the  poor, 

The  poor  and  old, 
On  the  moor 

And  on  the  wold,  — 

How  desolate  they  are  to-night,  and  cold !  " 

And  I  think  how  sadly  to  us  all 

Wails  up  this  universal  call 

From  God's  great  earth,  in  heat  or  cold. 
In  bright  or  blustering  weather,  — 

For  each  his  brother's  hand  should  hold. 
And  all  should  hope  and  strive  together 
As  equal  sons  of  one  great  Father. 

God  knows  there  is  enough  of  care 

For  each  to  have  his  share ! 

Enough,  alas,  of  crime  and  sin, 

Not  loved,  perchance,  nor  gloried  in, 

But  born  of  poverty  and  woes 

The  rich  man  never  knows,  — 

Enough  to  make  us  all  forbear,  — 

Enough  to  urge  our  warmest  powers 

In  gladdening  this  poor  world  of  ours,  — 

In  sowing  it  with  golden  seeds 

Of  generous  resolves  and  deeds,  — 

In  scattering  sunshine  all  around, 

Alike  on  rich  and  fallow  ground. 


152  A  PLEA  FOB  THE  DUMB 

So  would  this  earth  be  nearer  God,  — 
Till,  throwing  its  warm  life  abroad, 
'T  would  blossom  to  the  very  skies, 
A  harvest  of  glad  prophecies  ! 
The  aloe  of  the  patient  centuries ! 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  DUMB 

"  The  Rights  of  Man !  "    O  watchword  brave ! 

O  glorious  battle  cry. 
Beneath  whose  stirring  clarion-call   brave  men 

have  dared  to  die ! 
Thy  triumphs  still  come  down  to  us  on  fame's 

undying  page. 
Thy  champions  are  the  great  and  good  of  every 

cUme  and  age. 

"  The  Rights  of  Woman !  "  Sacred  call !  born 
later,  yet  aglow 

With  all  that  fired  the  hero  heart  in  the  dear  long 
ago  ! 

Sublime  in  patience,  sounding  clear  above  all 
jarring  din, 

"  Our  cause  is  just  and  shall  prevail,  't  is  right- 
eous and  shall  win." 

These  for  themselves :  but  who  shall  speak  for 
those  whose  mouths  are  dumb  ? 

The  poor,  brave  brutes,  with  patient  eyes,  and 
feet  that  go  and  come 


A  PLEA  FOR   THE  DUMB  153 

To  do  our  bidding ;  toiling  on  without  reward  or 

fee, 
Wearing  their  very  lives  away,  poor  things,  for 

you  and  me ! 

Behold  them  !  how  they  gi'oan  and  sweat,  beneath 
the  heavy  load. 

Each  sinew  taxed,  each  muscle  strained ;  while, 
sauntering  up  the  road. 

The  lazy  teamster  walks  abreast,  —  a  brute  him- 
self, or  worse,  — 

Urging  the  poor,  spent  creatures  on,  with  whip 
and  thong  and  curse. 

The  brave,  dumb  things !  no  voice  have  they  to 

say,  "  Why  do  ye  so  ? 
Am  I  not  man's  most  faithful  slave ;  his  fi'iend 

and  not  his  foe  ? 
Give  me  one   kind,  caressing   word,    undo   this 

heavy  load, 
Nor  tortui-e   me  along  the  way  with  whip  and 

thong  and  goad." 

''No  voice?"  said  I;  nay,  every  blow,  each 
stinging,  cutting  stroke 

Is  eloquent  of  pain  and  wrong,  as  though  an 
angel  spoke. 

Thank  God,  at  length  the  plea  prevails,  our 
AxGELL  takes  the  word. 

And  brave  hearts  rally  at  the  call  as  by  a  trum- 
pet stirred ! 


154  TOUCH  NOT,  TASTE  NOT,  HANDLE  NOT 

Dear  friends !  fair  women,  sweet  with  all  your 

nameless  charms  and  wiles, 
Bright,  laughing  maidens,  flitting  by  in  innocence 

and  smiles, 
Gay  children,  grave  and  bearded  men,  we  pray 

you  all  give  ear ; 
Dear  friends,  kind  friends,  we  turn  to  you  for 

sympathy  and  cheer. 

Uphold  us  in  our  noble  work,  nor  let  us  speak  in 

vain 
For  those  too  helpless  to  protest,  too  patient  to 

complain ; 
Be  pitiful,  be  generous,  to  help  us  in  our  need, 
And  He  who  notes  the  sparrow's  fall  shall  surely 

bless  the  deed. 


TOUCH  NOT,  TASTE  NOT,  HANDLE  NOT 

Touch  not !     Every  ill  is  there,  — 
Grief,  insanity,  despair. 
In  that  poisoned  coil  are  rolled 
Woes  unnumbered  and  untold. 
Yield  not  to  the  insidious  foe ; 
Touch  not !     Let  the  tempter  go. 

Taste  not !     Hear  what  wisdom  saith : 
Shouldst  thou  taint  thy  pure,  sweet  breath  ? 
Quench  thy  young  eye's  lustrous  light 


AGAINST  ODDS  155 

*Neath  its  baneful,  blasting  blight  ? 
No,  by  God's  sweet  goodness,  no ! 
Taste  not !     Bid  the  tempter  go. 

Handle  not !     Within  its  clasp 
Lurks  the  poison  of  the  asp. 
At  the  last  't  will  bite  and  sting 
Like  some  vengeful,  venomed  thing. 
Stand,  then,  bravely  in  thy  lot ; 
Touch  not !     Taste  not !     Handle  not ! 

AGAINST   ODDS 

"  I  WILL  be  strong !  "  I  said  ;  alas ! 
That  one  weak  moment  should  belie 
The  brave  resolve,  the  purpose  high  — 

"  I  will  be  strong  "  —  but  let  it  pass. 

Ah,  me,  that  life  should  have  such  dower, 
Such  fearful  scope  for  good  or  ill ; 
And  that  we  choose  the  evil  still, 

And  falter  in  temptation's  hour ! 

Oh,  traitor  heart,  thrice  recreant  thou ! 
Again  I  cry,  I  will  be  strong  — 
Will  yet  be  greater  than  the  wi'ong  — 

Will  yet  achieve  my  life-time  vow ! 

Bury  my  weakness,  oh,  ye  crowd 
Of  faithful  witnesses,  who  stand, 


154  TOUCH  NOT,  TASTE  NOT,  HANDLE  NOT 

Dear  friends !  fair  women,  sweet  with  all  your 

nameless  charms  and  wiles, 
Bright,  laughing  maidens,  flitting  by  in  innocence 

and  smiles. 
Gay  children,  grave  and  bearded  men,  we  pray 

you  all  give  ear ; 
Dear  friends,  kind  friends,  we  turn  to  you  for 

sympathy  and  cheer. 

Uphold  us  in  our  noble  work,  nor  let  us  speak  in 

vain 
For  those  too  helpless  to  protest,  too  patient  to 

complain ; 
Be  pitiful,  be  generous,  to  help  us  in  our  need, 
And  He  who  notes  the  sparrow's  fall  shall  surely 

bless  the  deed. 


TOUCH  NOT,  TASTE  NOT,  HANDLE  NOT 

Touch  not !     Every  ill  is  there,  — 
Grief,  insanity,  despair. 
In  that  poisoned  coil  are  rolled 
Woes  unnumbered  and  untold. 
Yield  not  to  the  insidious  foe  ; 
Touch  not !     Let  the  tempter  go. 

Taste  not !     Hear  what  wisdom  saith : 
Shouldst  thou  taint  thy  pure,  sweet  breath  ? 
Quench  thy  young  eye's  lustrous  light 


AGAINST  ODDS  155 

*Neath  its  baneful,  blasting  blight  ? 
No,  by  God's  sweet  goodness,  no ! 
Taste  not !     Bid  the  tempter  go. 

Handle  not !     Within  its  clasp 
Lurks  the  poison  of  the  asp. 
At  the  last  't  will  bite  and  sting 
Like  some  vengeful,  venomed  thing. 
Stand,  then,  bravely  in  thy  lot ; 
Touch  not !     Taste  not !     Handle  not ! 

AGAINST  ODDS 

"  I  WILL  be  strong !  "  I  said  ;  alas ! 
That  one  weak  moment  should  belie 
The  brave  resolve,  the  purpose  high  — 

"  I  will  be  strong  "  —  but  let  it  pass. 

Ah,  me,  that  life  should  have  such  dower. 
Such  fearful  scope  for  good  or  ill ; 
And  that  we  choose  the  evil  still. 

And  falter  in  temptation's  hour  ! 

Oh,  traitor  heart,  thrice  recreant  thou ! 
Again  I  cry,  I  will  be  strong  — 
Will  yet  be  greater  than  the  wi^ong  — 

Will  yet  achieve  my  life-time  vow ! 

Bury  my  weakness,  oh,  ye  crowd 
Of  faithful  witnesses,  who  stand, 


156  SINGLE   COMBAT 

Around  my  soul  on  every  hand, 
And  tell  the  failure  not  aloud. 

For  I  shall  conquer !     All  begun, 
The  conflict  rages  through  my  life  ; 
Yet  I  shall  conquer  in  the  strife, 

And  sing  at  last,  a  victory  won ! 


SINGLE  COMBAT 

In  all  the  challenges  which  life 
Holds  out  to  us,  I  count  it  grand. 
Yet  half  pathetic,  that  we  stand 

Or  fall,  unaided  in  the  strife : 

That  still,  unheeded  and  alone, 

Each  soul  must  meet  its  mortal  foes  — 
With  none  to  help  or  to  oppose. 

To  mark  its  psean  or  its  moan. 

What  cares  the  world  that  you  have  met 
A  fierce  temptation  on  your  way, 
Have  fought  it  through  the  livelong  day 

The  issue  hanging  doubtful  yet  ? 

But  this  remains  to  cure  the  smart, 
To  medicine  the  loneliest  wound  — 
He  stands  on  consecrated  ground 

Who  battles  bravely,  though  apart : 


TRUST  157 

Ground  that  the  samts  and  martyrs  trod, 
And  once  —  with  reverence  he  it  said  — 
Made  sacred  by  the  sinless  tread 

Of  Him  who  was  the  Son  of  God. 


TRUST 

Into  the  mystery  of  life, 

Dear  Lord,  I  cannot  see ; 
I  only  know  that  I  exist. 

Made  and  upheld  by  Thee. 

The  brooding  presence  of  Thy  love 

Encircles  me  about, 
Nor  leaves  me  room  for  any  fear, 

Nor  place  for  any  doubt. 

I  know  Thee  in  the  cloud  by  day 

As  in  the  fire  by  night ; 
Both  lead  me  to  my  promised  home, 
The  land  of  my  delight. 

The  future  cannot  yield  me  proof 

More  tender  or  divine, 
Than  has  the  past,  that  all  Thy  thoughts 

To  meward  are  benign. 

And  backward  if  I  look,  I  own 
The  leadings  of  Thy  love ; 


158  PERFECT  THROUGH  SUFFERING 

Or  forward  gaze,  the  same  kind  hand 
Still  beckons  from  above. 

So,  mercies  past  the  pledge  shall  be 

Of  mercies  yet  in  store  ; 
And  present  love  the  guarantee 

Of  love  forevermore. 


PERFECT  THROUGH  SUFFERING 

Press  the  grape,  the  sweet  wine  flows ; 
Break  the  ground,  the  harvest  grows  ; 
Crush  the  shell,  the  kernel  shows. 

As  with  nature  so  with  man  ; 
Such  God's  universal  plan 
Ever  since  the  race  began. 

Fallow  souls  no  fruitage  bear ; 
Hearts  untouched  by  wholesome  care 
Never  yield  the  vintage  rare. 

Vain  God's  constant  dew  and  sun ; 
Still  the  gracious  work  undone  — 
Nay,  in  truth,  not  yet  begun. 

Still  the  soil  no  harvest  yields ; 

So  the  Lord  his  ploughshare  wields, 

Drives  it  deep  through  all  his  fields ; 


PERFECT  LOVE  CASTETH  OUT  FEAR''   159 

Drives  it  deep  and  drives  it  sure ; 
Ah,  my  soul !  canst  thou  endure  ? 
Patience  !     He  who  wounds  can  cure. 

Better  his  ploughshare  than  his  sword ; 
Nathless,  can  I  say,  "  Dear  Lord, 
Do  according  to  thy  word  ! 

"  Root  up  every  baleful  thing, 
Every  germ  of  folly  bring 
Topmost,  for  its  withering  ?  " 

Thus  prepared,  the  heavenly  seed 
Planted,  shall  take  root  indeed, 
Yielding  harvests  at  our  need. 

Harvests,  too,  whose  bounteous  store, 
Even  life  forevermore, 
Scattered,  shall  enrich  the  poor. 


PERFECT  LOVE  CASTETH  OUT  FEAR 

With  open  eyes  that  look  on  God, 

My  daily  journey  I  pursue : 
I  do  not  dread  His  lifted  rod ; 

Why  should  I  fear  what  Love  can  do  ? 
And,  if  I  need  that  He  chastise, 
Is  He  not  good  as  He  is  wise  ? 


160      ''HE   GIVETH  TO  HIS  BELOVED'' 

I  know  if  I  but  follow  Him 

I  shall  be  safe  from  harm  and  make  — 
Albeit  all  the  way  be  dim  — 

Nor  slip  nor  failure  nor  mistake ; 
Or,  making  such,  He  will  ordain 
What  seems  my  loss  shall  prove  my  gain. 

And,  though  I  look,  to  careless  eyes, 
A  waif  on  pathless  waters  cast, 

His  faithful  promise  shall  suffice 
For  stay  and  comfort  to  the  last  — 

When,  all  my  guarded  wanderings  o'er, 

Let  my  safe  feet  but  touch  the  shore, 

And,  like  a  child  with  home  in  sight, 

I  '11  fall  into  His  open  arms, 
Glad  that  I  never  felt  affright, 

Nor  thought  of  Him  as  one  who  harms 
I,  His  dear  child,  or  here,  or  there. 
And  He,  my  Father  everywhere  ! 


"HE   GIVETH   TO  HIS   BELOVED   IN 
SLEEP "1 

Last  night  a  glorious  vision, 

No  eye  but  mine  could  see, 
On  sleep's  white,  beautiful  pinion 

Came  down  from  my  Lord  to  me : 

1  Marginal  translation. 


"CONSIDER   THE  LILIES''  161 

I  heard  no  song  of  the  angels, 

Only  a  still,  small  voice  ; 
But  it  glorified  all  the  silence 

And  made  the  night  rejoice. 

O  friend,  would  you  know  the  vision 

That  over  my  pillow  shone, 
That  out  of  the  starry  silence 

Spoke  to  my  heart  alone  — 
The  glad  and  glorious  vision, 

No  eye  but  mine  could  see. 
That  on  sleep's  white,  beautiful  pinion 

Came  down  from  my  Lord  to  me  ? 

If  ever  my  faith  grows  stronger 

As  gloomier  grows  the  night, 
If  out  of  the  stormy  darkness 

I  point  to  the  coming  light. 
Be  sure  I  have  told  the  vision 

No  eye  but  mine  could  see, 
That  on  sleep's  white,  beautiful  pinion 

Came  down  from  my  Lord  to  me. 


"CONSIDER   THE   LILIES" 

Lily  fair  and  pure  and  cool, 

Floating  on  yon  miry  pool. 

Is  the  sweetness  all  of  you  ? 

Has  the  mire  from  whence  you  grew 


162  ''CONSIDER  THE  LILIES'' 

Naught  of  virtue,  —  building  up, 
Leaf  by  leaf,  your  perfect  cup,  — 
By  some  strange,  transmuting  skill 
Moulding,  shaping  you  at  will  ? 

Certes,  many  a  flowering  shoot, 
With  the  wholesome  earth  at  root, 
Well  may  envy  you,  my  queen. 
Blooming  from  such  depths  unclean. 

Yet  is  wrought  no  occult  spell : 
Nature  but  disposes  well 
All  her  forces ;  then,  she  grows 
Here  a  lily,  there  a  rose. 

One  she  tends  with  dew  and  sun, 
Cribs  in  finest  mould,  and  one 
Buries  'neath  the  dark  and  slime, 
Bidding  each  to  bide  its  time. 

Till,  arrived  at  blossoming  growth. 
She  is  justified  of  both  ; 
Since,  which  sweetest  is,  who  knows, 
Or  the  lily  or  the  rose  ? 

Therefore,  O  ye  darkened  souls. 
Struggling  upward  unto  goals 
Ye  must  reach  'gainst  bitter  odds. 
Courage !     Nature's  ways  are  God's. 


LORD'S  DAY  163 

What  though  He  withhold  from  you, 
For  a  season,  sun  and  dew  ? 
Where  you  cannot  understand, 
Trust  to  his  transmuting  hand. 

He  who  made  the  water  wine 
Knew  this  alchemy  divine  : 
Through  the  paths  of  pain  He  trod, 
Perfect  grew  the  Son  of  God. 

He  is  risen,  laying  down 
Toil  for  triumph,  cross  for  crown ; 
He  is  risen  :  soul  of  mine. 
Courage  !  conquer  by  this  sign  ! 


LORD'S   DAY 

I  THINK  that  all  our  days  should  be  Lord's  days, 
And  sacred  to  his  service.     Do  we  need 
Church-calling  bells  God-ward  our  steps  to  lead, 
Organs  and  choirs  to  stimulate  our  praise, 
And  well-read  homilies  our  souls  to  raise 

Above  their  week-long  earthliness  and  greed  ? 
Alas,  what  profit  is  it,  if  succeed. 
To  one  sweet  day  employed  in  hallowed  ways, 

Six,  spent  in  worldliness  and  sloth  and  pride  ? 
Dear  Sabbath,  pearl  of  price  !  that  we  should  dare 
To  set  thee  in  such  tinsel  for  the  wear 

Of  the  Great  King !    How  shall  our  work  abide 


164  MATIN  HYMN 

When  He  shall  come  like  a  consuming  fire 
And  dross  shall  melt  beneath  his  sacred  ire  ? 


MATIN  HYMN 

I  LIFT  the  sash  and  gaze  abroad 

On  the  sweet  earth  so  fair  and  bright ; 

I  raise  my  heart  to  Thee,  oh  God, 

And  cry,  "  I  thank  Thee  for  the  light ! " 

Beyond,  the  summer  hills  lie  green. 

Fringed  with  their  wealth  of  waving  trees, 

That  sparkle  in  the  sunny  sheen 

And  tremble  in  the  trembling  breeze. 

O  God,  I  thank  Thee  for  each  sight 
Of  beauty  that  Thy  hand  doth  give ; 

For  sunny  skies  and  air  and  light ; 
Oh  God,  I  thank  Thee  that  I  live ! 

That  life  I  consecrate  to  Thee, 

And  ever,  as  the  day  is  born, 
On  wings  of  joy  my  soul  would  flee 

And  thank  Thee  for  another  morn ; 

Another  day  in  which  to  cast 
Some  silent  deed  of  love  abroad. 

That,  greatening  as  it  journeys  past, 
May  do  some  earnest  work  for  God. 


EVENTIDE  165 

Another  day  to  do,  to  dare ; 

To  tax  anew  my  growing  strength ; 
To  arm  my  soul  \yith  faith  and  prayer; 

And  so  reach  heaven  and  Thee  at  length. 


EVENTIDE 

At  cool  of  day,  with  God  I  walk 
My  garden's  gi'atef ul  shade ; 

I  hear  His  voice  among  the  trees, 
And  I  am  not  afraid. 

I  see  His  presence  in  the  night,  — 
And,  though  my  heart  is  awed, 

I  do  not  quail  beneath  the  sight 
Or  nearness  of  my  God. 

He  speaks  to  me  in  every  wind, 

He  smiles  from  every  star ; 
He  is  not  deaf  to  me,  nor  blind, 

Nor  absent,  nor  afar. 

His  hand,  that  shuts  the  flowers  to  sleep 

Each  in  its  dewy  fold, 
Is  strong  my  feeble  life  to  keep, 
And  competent  to  hold. 

I  cannot  walk  in  darkness  long,  — 
My  light  is  by  my  side ; 


166  NO  NIGHT 

I  cannot  stumble  or  go  wrong, 
While  following  such  a  guide. 

He  is  my  stay  and  my  defence ;  — 

How  shall  I  fail  or  fall  ? 
My  helper  is  Omnipotence ! 

My  ruler  ruleth  all ! 

The  powers  below  and  powers  above, 

Are  subject  to  His  care : 
I  cannot  wander  from  His  love 

Who  loves  me  everywhere. 

Thus  dowered,  and  guarded  thus,  with  Him 

I  walk  this  peaceful  shade  ; 
I  hear  His  voice  among  the  trees, 

And  I  am  not  afraid. 


NO  NIGHT 

"  There  shall  be  no  night  there."  —  Rev.  xxi.  25. 

No  night,  no  night !     O  blessed  dawn, 
When  this  frail  body  shall  put  on 
Immortal  robes  and  bright  renown, 
And  with  God's  ransomed  ones  sit  down  ! 

No  night  of  sorrow !     I  shall  be 
From  every  grief  forever  free ; 


NO  NIGHT  167 

For  God's  own  hand,  with  gentle  sway, 
Shall  wipe  my  latest  tear  away. 

No  night  of  trial !     Here  below, 
What  thorns  amid  my  roses  grow ! 
But  there,  the  flowers  of  my  delight 
Shall  know  no  thorn,  shall  fear  no  blight. 

No  night  of  sin  !     Thrice  blessed  day ! 
How  often  here  I  go  astray ! 
But  when  I  reach  that  heavenly  shore 
I  shall  be  safe,  and  sin  no  more. 

No  night  of  sickness  !     Here  in  pain 
How  oft  I  sink,  then  rise  again  ; 
But  there,  the  tree  of  healing  grows, 
An  antidote  for  all  my  woes. 

No  night  of  death  !     O  cherished  few 
Whose  hearts  on  earth  to  mine  are  true  ! 
There  we  shall  meet,  and,  meeting,  be 
From  change  and  death  forever  free. 

No  night  of  tempest !     Storms  arise 
And  overcast  these  earthly  skies  ; 
There,  all  shall  be  serenely  bright. 
Nor  tempests  blow,  nor  storms  affright. 

No  night  of  trouble,  want  or  care, 
No  night  of  sadness  or  despair ; 


168  TEE  ETERNAL    WISDOM 

No  night,  no  night,  but  there  alway 
Calm,  bright,  serene,  celestial  day ! 

No  night,  no  night !     O  blessed  clime ! 
Fain  would  I  leap  this  shoal  of  time. 
And  rest  with  all  the  ransomed  band, 
Within  that  bright,  that  happy  land  I 


THE  ETERNAL  WISDOM 

Thai^:ks,  Lord,  for  Thy  withholding  grace, 

As  for  Thy  favors  granted  ; 
Since,  oft-times,  what  I  craved,  if  given, 

Had  been  what  least  I  wanted. 

And  pausing  at  this  finished  round, 

This  cycle  of  my  being, 
My  soul  rejoices  that  its  way 

Is  with  the  Great  All-Seeing. 

His  plans  are  wiser  far  than  ours, 
Who  sees  from  the  beginning  ; 

And  he  who  doubts  the  gracious  end 
Repays  the  grace  with  sinning. 

Who  —  glancing  down  his  tangled  life. 
Its  thousand  tricksome  phases  — 

But  sees  a  purpose  running  through, 
That  all  his  soul  amazes ! 


MARTHA  OR  3IARY?  169 

Each  grief,  each  trial,  each  defeat, 

Has  had  its  end  designed  it ; 
Each  sin  has  left  its  after-taste, 

Its  bitter  cure,  behind  it. 

And  yet,  O  will  of  God,  most  wise !  — 

Who  can  by  searching  know  it  ? 
And  who,  by  seeking  to  reveal, 

But  fails  the  more  to  show  it ! 

We  wait  the  shining  of  that  day 

That  every  cloud  disperses,  — 
Counting,  the  while,  our  losses,  gains ; 

Our  trials,  tender  mercies  ; 

And  clinging,  still,  to  God's  dear  hand. 

In  our  poor  human  fashion  ; 
Assured  that  all  His  ways  are  wise 

And  all  His  thoughts  compassion. 


MARTHA   OR  MARY? 

I  CAira^OT  choose ;  I  should  have  liked  so  much 
To  sit  at  Jesus'  feet,  —  to  feel  the  touch 
Of   his  kind,  gentle  hand  upon  my  head 
While  drinking  in  the  gracious  words  he  said. 

And  yet  to  serve   him  !  —  oh,  divine  employ,  — 
To  minister  and  give  the  Master  joy, 


170  LOST  AND  FOUND 

To  bathe  in  coolest  springs  his  weary  feet, 
And  wait  upon  him  while  he  sat  at  meat ! 

Worship  or  service,  —  which  ?    Ah,  that  is  best 
To  which  he  calls  us,  be  it  toil  or  rest,  — 
To  labor  for  him  in  life's  busy  stir, 
Or  seek  his  feet  a  silent  worshipper. 

So  let  him  choose  for  us :  we  are  not  strong 
To  make  the  choice  ;  perhaps  we  should  go  wrong, 
Mistaking  zeal  for  service,  sinful  sloth 
For  loving  worship,  —  and  so  fail  of  both. 


LOST   AND  FOUND 

I  HAD  a  treasure  in  my  house 

And  woke  one  day  to  find  it  gone ; 
I  mourned  for  it  from  dawn  till  night, 
From  night  till  dawn. 

I  said,  "  Behold,  I  will  arise 

And  sweep  my  house,"  —  and  so  I  found 
What  I  had  lost,  and  told  my  joy 
To  all  around. 

I  had  a  treasure  in  my  heart, 

And  scarcely  knew  that  it  had  fled, 
Until  communion  with  my  Lord 
Grew  cold  and  dead. 


/  SAID  111 

"Behold,"  I  said,  "I  will  arise 

And  sweep  my  heart  of  self  and  sin ; 
For  so  the  peace  that  I  have  lost 
May  enter  in." 

O  friends,  rejoice  with  me  I     Each  day 

Helps  my  lost  treasure  to  restore  ; 
And  sweet  communion  with  my  Lord 
Is  mine  once  more. 


I  SAID 

When  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring 
Began  their  fragrant  leaves  to  shed, 

And  robins  twittered  on  the  wing, 
"  'T  is  time  to  sow  my  seeds,"  I  said. 

So,  patiently,  with  care  and  pains, 
My  nurslings  underground  I  spread : 

"  The  early  and  the  latter  rains 

Will  reach  them  where  they  lie,"  I  said. 

"  The  sun  will  nurse  them,  and  the  dew ; 

The  sweet  winds  woo  them  overhead. 
No  care  of  mine  shall  coax  them  through 

This  black,  unsightly  mould,"  I  said. 

And  so  I  left  them  ;  day  by  day, 
To  gentle  household  duties  wed, 


172  THE  LOST  SHEEP 

I  went  in  quiet  on  my  way : 

"  God  will  take  care  of  them,"  I  said. 

And  now  't  is  autumn  ;  rich  and  bright 
My  garden  blooms  —  blue,  white,  and  red ; 

A  loyal  show  !  a  regal  sight ! 
And  all  is  even  as  I  said. 

My  faithless  heart !  the  lesson  heed, 

No  longer  walk  disquieted ; 
Where  the  Great  Sower  sows  the  seed, 

All  shall  be  even  as  He  said. 

'T  is  spring-time  yet ;  behold,  the  years 
Roll  grandly  in,  hope-heralded, 

When  thou  shalt  say,  "  Oh,  graceless  fears ! 
Lo !  all  is  even  as  He  said !  " 


THE  LOST  SHEEP 

"  Not  willing  that  any  should  perish." 

O  friend  of  sinners,  who  for  man  once  died, 
While  any  wanderers  remain  outside 
The  pale  of  thy  sweet  mercy,  canst  thou  see 
Of  thy  sore  travail,  and  be  satisfied  ? 

If  but  one  sheep  of  all  the  guarded  fold 
Is  lost  upon  the  mountain-tops,  behold, 


SATISFIED  173 

The  watchful  shepherd  leaves  the  rest,  to  seek 
The  lost  one ;  finding  it,  aweary,  cold. 

Its  trembling  limbs  he  tenderly  doth  chafe, 
And  bears  it  in  his  bosom,  warm  and  safe. 
Back  to  the  fold.     O  shepherd  all  divine, 
Wilt  thou  do  less  for  any  human  waif  ? 

Shall  earthly  care  with  heavenly  care  compete  ? 
May  we  not  trust  that  all  these  wandering  feet 
Shall  reach  at  last  thy  sacred  fold,  and  bide 
Forever  in  thy  pastures  large  and  sweet  ? 


SATISFIED 

Not  here  ;  my  roses  bear  too  many  thorns ; 

My  gold  has  in  it  too  much  of  alloy ; 
The  purple  of  my  robe  too  oft  adorns 

An  aching  soul ;  my  sweets  too  often  cloy. 

Not  now :  the  present  has  too  much  of  pain  — 
Too  much,  alas,  of  mingled  hope  and  fear  ; 

I  set  my  loss  too  often  'gainst  ray  gain ; 
I  shall  be  satisfied  not  now,  not  here. 

But  there !  but  then !  in  heaven  !  when  I  wake 
In  His  dear  likeness  who  for  me  once  died ! 

Oh,  fount  of  bliss  I  in  thee  once  let  me  slake 
My  lifelong  thirst  —  I  shall  be  satisfied  ! 


174  HYMN 


HYMN 

[For  the  Bicentennial  of  the  First  Congregational  Church,  Mar- 
blehead,  August  13,  1884.] 

The  changing  centuries,  O  God, 

Fulfil  thy  perfect  thought : 
The  ancient  paths  the  fathers  trod 
Are  widening  into  highways  broad 

Because  thy  hand  has  wrought. 

Our  sires  adored  and  worshipped  thee, 

Yet  feared  beneath  thy  rod  ; 
And  if  with  clearer  eyes  we  see 
Thy  judgments  with  thy  grace  agree, 

We  bless  thee,  O  our  God. 

They  saw  thee  in  the  cloud  and  flame ; 

We  see  thee  in  the  sun. 
Thanks  for  the  years,  that  aye  proclaim 
Thy  justice  and  thy  love  the  same, 

And  joy  and  duty  one. 

Dear  Father,  kind  when  most  severe, 

Most  loving  when  most  just : 
To  lead  us  through  each  changing  year, 
In  pastures  wide,  by  waters  clear, 

Thy  guiding  hand  we  trust. 


THE  RETREAT  175 


THE   RETREAT  1 

A  REFUGE  for  life's  burdened  ones, 

A  beautiful  and  calm  retreat, 
Where  toil  may  fold  her  weary  hands 

And  labor  ease  her  aching  feet. 

Oh,  noble  purpose  —  born  of  grief 

And  loss  —  that  planned  this  place  of  rest ! 

That  wrought  through  patient  years,  till  now 
Its  glad  fulfilment  stands  confessed ! 

Dear  Lord,  accept  the  gift,  and  make 
This  Home  the  fair  abode  of  peace, 

Where  loving  ministries  shall  dwell 
And  care  and  toil  find  glad  surcease. 

Here  may  the  burdened  seek  repose, 
The  sad  take  heart  again,  and  here 

May  joyless  childhood  wake  once  more 
Its  happy  laugh  of  careless  cheer. 

So  shall  this  blessed  influence  flow, 

An  ever-widening  sea  of  love  ; 
Source  of  unnumbered  joys  below. 

And  t}^e  of  sweeter  joys  above. 

1  Written  for  the  dedication,  May  31,  ISSS,  of  "Rosemary  Cot- 
tage," Eliot,  Me.,  a  summer  retreat  for  poor  children  and  tired 
women,  founded  by  Mrs.  Moses  G.  Farmer. 


176  IN   WAR  TIME 


IN  WAR  TIME 

I  WANDERED  in  unquiet  mood 

Beneath  the  stars  :  "  Oh,  Solitude 

And  Night,"  I  murmured,  "ye  are  good ! 

"  The  day  with  ceaseless  din  is  rife  ; 
There  is  no  room  in  this  vexed  life 
For  anything  but  noise  and  strife. 

"  When  will  the  dreadful  carnage  cease, 
And  the  sweet  Sabbath  dawn  of  Peace 
Rise  on  the  nation  and  increase  ? 

"  Oh,  blessed  Freedom !  haste  the  day ! 
For  only  'neath  thy  perfect  sway 
These  horrors  shall  be  rolled  away." 

I  looked  up  to  the  thronging  stars ; 
Above,  the  flaming  planet,  Mars, 
Struggled  and  plunged  through  cloudy  bars. 

Great  drifts  of  misty  shadow  lay 
Like  spectral  ghouls  athwart  his  way. 
Sullen  and  wrathful,  cold  and  gray. 

And  while  I  gazed,  his  fiery  light 

Grew  quenched  and  dim,  then  vanished  quite  ; 

My  soul  leaped  upward  at  the  sight ! 


IN   WAR   TIME  177 

"  Thus  perish  from  the  earth,"  I  said, 
"Thy  baleful  influence,  carnage-wed 
And  born  of  blood,  thou  planet  red  !  " 

Exulting,  to  the  north  I  turned 
Impetuous  —  for  my  spirit  burned 
To  see  the  happy  sign  confirmed. 

There,  keeping  her  inviolate  tryst, 
Calm,  undisturbed  by  any  mist, 
Clear-shining  as  an  amethyst. 

By  no  avenging  cloud-gnomes  driven. 
The  sacred  star  to  Freedom  given 
Smiled  on  me  from  the  tranquil  heaven. 

And  if  I  took  it  for  a  sign. 
The  pointing  of  a  Hand  Di\ane, 
The  impulse  was  not  wholly  mine. 

It  calmed  me  to  a  better  mood  ; 
No  more  I  said,  "  Oh,  Solitude 
And  Darkness,  ye  alone  are  good!  " 

I  blessed  the  day  for  what  it  brought 

Of  truth  and  valor,  battle-wrought ; 

The  hearts  that  dared,  the  hands  that  fought. 

But  most  I  blessed  the  gratjious  Power 
That  guards  the  issues  of  the  hour 
And  waits  to  crown  it  with  His  dower ; 


178  THE    WILL   FOR   THE  DEED 

Peace,  born  of  Freedom  !  priceless  boon ! 
Sweet  keynote  to  a  song  shall  soon 
Set  a  discordant  world  in  tune ! 


THE  WILL  FOR  THE  DEED 

No  sword  have  I,  no  battle-blade, 
Nor  shining  spear ;  how  shall  I  aid 
My  country  in  her  great  crusade  ? 

I  cannot  sow  with  gold  the  sod, 

Like  Dragon's  teeth,  and  from  tho  clod 

See  armed  men  rise,  battle-shod. 

I  may  not  stand  in  mart  or  hall 

And  shomt  aloud  great  Freedom's  call, 

"  Come  to  the  rescue,  one  and  all !  '* 

I  am  a  woman,  weak  and  slight, 
No  voice  to  plead,  no  arm  to  fight, 
Yet  burning  to  support  the  right. 

How  shall  I  aid  my  country's  cause  ? 
How  help  avenge  her  trampled  laws .'' 
Alas,  my  woman's  heart  makes  pause. 

With  oil  and  wine  I  may  not  go 
Where  wounded  men  toss  to  and  fro, 
Beneath  the  invader's  hand  laid  low. 


AFTER  A    VICTORY  179 

My  little  child  looks  up  to  me 

And  lisps  a  stronger,  mightier  plea  ; 

God  wills  where  he  is  I  should  he. 

Ah  well,  I  am  not  needed  !     He 

Who  knows  my  heart,  perchance,  for  me 

Has  other  work  than  now  I  see. 

*'  They  also  serve  who  stand  and  wait." 
Oh,  golden  words !  and  not  too  late, 
My  soul  accepts  her  humbler  fate. 

Content  to  serve  in  any  way, 
Less  than  the  least,  if  so  I  may 
But  hail  the  dawning  of  that  day, 

When  my  beloved  land  shall  rise, 

And  shout  as  one  man  to  the  skies, 

"  Lo,  Freedom  lives  and  Slavery  dies !  " 


AFTER  A   VICTORY 

There  is  no  need,  sweet  moon  I  the  night 
With  other  splendor  is  bedight, 
The  dizened  panes  are  all  alight 

With  taper-gleams  ;  and  on  the  air, 
Commingled  with  the  rocket's  glare, 
A  thousand  torchlights  flash  and  flare. 


180  AFTER  A    VICTORY 

'T  is  late ;  but  still,  adown  the  street, 
So  gay  with  flags,  I  hear  the  beat 
Of  quick,  exulting,  restless  feet ; 

And,  over  all,  incessant  swells 
The  jangle  of  the  village  bells. 
And  cannon  booming  o'er  the  dells ; 

For  tidings  thrilled  us  yesternight 
Of  a  brave  victory  ;  how  the  fight 
Was  fearful,  but  God  helped  the  right. 

"  The  fight  was  fearful."     Oh  !  the  pain 
And  grief  and  loss  against  the  gain ; 
The  joy  of  triumph,  and  its  bane ! 

O  friends !  dear  friends !  my  pulses  leap 
Loyal  as  yours ;  yet  I  could  weep 
Above  this  pageant  that  we  keep. 

Bear  with  me  ;  but  my  heart  is  sore 
For  our  dead  heroes  ;  score  on  score 
Shall  see  God's  sweet  light  nevermore. 

They  loved  like  us :  the  belts  they  drew 
Close  for  the  fight  zoned  hearts  as  true 
And  warm  as  beat  in  me  and  you. 

Their  babes,  like  ours,  were  rosy-fair ; 

Had  eyes  as  blue,  as  silky  hair ; 

Their  mother's  hair  and  eyes,  —  ah,  there 


POE.}f  FOR  DECORATION  DAY         181 

You  touch  the  tender  spot !  pause,  men  ! 
Go  home  to  wife  and  child,  —  and  then, 
If  ye  have  heart  to,  shout  again. 

Ah  well !     God  send  the  night  come  soon 
When  these  mad  hells  another  tune 
Shall  clamor  to  the  listening  moon ; 

When  lights  in  every  pane  shall  gleam, 
And  torches  flash  and  rockets  stream, 
Responsive  to  the  hells'  glad  theme,  — 

Freedom  and  peace :  Great  Power  ahove ! 
Mate  thou  this  eagle  with  this  dove,  — 
The  rule  of  right,  the  rule  of  love ; 

And  hid  their  married  wings  brood  o'er 
This  bleeding  land  of  ours,  —  once  more 
At  one,  and  free  from  shore  to  shore ! 


POEM  FOR  DECORATION  DAY 

OxcE  more  the  changing  seasons  bring 

The  lovely  miracle  of  spring : 

The  streams  their  cheery  songs  renew. 

The  skies  take  on  a  deeper  blue ; 

A  spicy  scent  the  air  pervades. 

From  blossoming  boughs  and  ferny  glades 

The  sweet  days  lengthen  unaware, 


182  POE^f  FOR  DECORATION  DAY 

The  shortened  nights  grow  warm  and  fair ; 

The  woods  their  robe  of  russet  brown 

Take  off,  and  don  a  gayer  gown ; 

The  fields,  to  be  as  fine  as  they, 

Set  all  their  subtle  looms  at  play, 

And  weave,  unceasing,  though  unseen. 

Their  great  rich  carpets,  broad  and  green,  - 

Designing  deftly,  here  and  there, 

Flower-patterns,  pale,  but  passing  fair, 

Counting  on  June's  delicious  skies 

To  warm  them  into  deeper  dyes ; 

Blithe  robins  pour  delirious  notes 

Of  welcome  from  their  crimson  throats ; 

The  bluebird  scarce  can  build  his  nest 

For  the  deep  rapture  at  his  breast, 

And  pauses  in  his  work,  to  sing 

This  lovely  miracle  of  spring. 

Oh,  meet  it  is,  dear  friends,  that  we 

Should  join  this  jocund  company  ; 

And  —  though  we  cannot  quite  be  gay  — 

Put  on  our  singing  robes  to-day : 

Sing  of  the  spirit's  light  and  bloom, 

Sing  how  the  Power  that  bursts  the  tomb 

Of  nature,  keepeth  watch  above 

The  sepulchre  of  those  we  love. 

For  they  are  risen  ;  they  are  not  here  : 

These  graves,  with  each  returning  year, 

Ye  deck  with  flowers,  —  but  where  are  they 

Whose  souls  once  habited  the  clay 


POEM  FOR  DECORATION  DAY  183 

That  sleeps  beneath  ?    Thou  knowest  where, 

Dear  Lord ;  thou  hast  them  still  in  care  : 

The  sparrow  shall  not  fall  without 

Our  Father,  and  we  will  not  doubt. 

Yet  still  we  love,  as  spring  returns, 

To  gather  round  these  sacred  urns ; 

To  come  with  brimful  hands,  and  pour, 

From  Nature's  fast  reviving  store 

Of  bud  and  bloom,  our  grateful  gift,  — 

White  lilies,  and  the  pink-white  drift 

Of  apple-blossoms,  purple  plumes 

Of  lilacs,  sweet  sp'inga  blooms  ; 

Gay  crocus-flowers  and  daffodils, 

And  columbines  from  breezy  hills  : 

Searching  the  wood  for  flowery  signs, 

We  rifle  it  of  half  its  vines, 

Pluck  sweet  arbutus,  nor  forget. 

Withal,  the  blue-eyed  violet. 

No  flower  too  lowly,  none  too  rare 

For  tribute  ;  love  delights  to  spare,  — 

Counting  its  costliest  service  small 

To  theirs  who,  dying,  gave  up  all ! 

O,  if  there  be,  above  the  rest, 

One  spot  by  grateful  footsteps  pressed. 

One  place  where  love  and  light  and  bloom 

Should  rise  triumphant  over  gloom 

And  doubt  and  hate,  't  is  where  they  lie 

Who  dared,  for  duty's  sake  to  die  ! 

Let  nothing  dark  nor  fearsome  tread 

These  haunts  of  our  heroic  dead. 


184  POEM  FOR  DECORATION  DAY 

But  light  and  joy  and  peace  instead. 
Thrice  hallowed  spot !     There  let  the  spring 
Bestow  its  earliest  blossoming  ; 
There  let  the  singing  robins  come, 
And  sparrows  chirp,  and  insects  hum ; 
And  squirrels  from  the  nutty  wood 
People  the  peaceful  solitude. 
And  crickets  sing  among  the  grass, 
And  troops  of  happy  children  pass : 
There  friendships  go,  to  plant  the  spot 
With  heart's-ease  and  forget-me-not; 
And  new-made  lovers,  passion-mad. 
Frequent  the  place  and  make  it  glad 
With  shy  half-glances  as  they  walk, 
Sweet  notliings  and  bewildered  talk ; 
And  mother  lead  her  little  child, 
In  search  of  blossoms,  nature-wild  ; 
And  all  sweet  care  of  man  and  God 
Plant  flowers  above  the  hallowed  sod. 

Yet  one  more  word,  —  heaven  speed  the  day 

When  wars  from  earth  shall  pass  away, 

When  principles  more  dear  than  life 

Shall  triumph  —  but  through  love,  not  strife, 

And  men  shall  own  another  might 

Than  bloodshed,  in  defence  of  right : 

A  day  more  hallowed  even  than  this,  — 

When  righteousness  and  peace  shall  kiss  ; 

And,  in  her  quiet  citadel, 

Mercy  with  truth  delight  to  dwell ; 


FLOWERS  FOR   OUR  DEAD  185 

"When,  in  our  Rama-homes,  no  sound 
Of  lamentation  shall  be  found, 
Henceforth,  above  our  slaughtered  ones,  — 
Sad  Rachels  weeping  for  their  sons,  — 
But,  in  the  stead  thereof,  shall  rise, 
Reechoing  to  the  farthest  skies, 
Hosannas  over  war's  surcease. 
Praises  for  love's  divine  increase. 
And  paeans  in  the  name  of  peace ! 


FLOWERS   FOR   OUR   DEAD 

"  Flowers  for  our  dead  !  "  —  and  at  the  word 
As  by  a  mandate  from  the  Lord, 
The  green  earth  blossomed ;  far  and  wide 
Hill,  valley,  to  the  call  replied. 

Flowers  for  our  dead !     Oh !  lovely  things ! 
God  fashioned  all  your  painted  wings. 
And  gemmed  your  starry  eyes  with  dew, 
And  gave  you  robes,  red,  white  and  blue. 

And  here,  beneath  his  sky,  we  stand. 
And  take  you  from  his  gracious  hand  — 
Passing  around  with  reverent  tread 
To  scatter  you  above  our  dead. 

Oh,  flowers !  lie  here,  and  breathe  away 
Your  unspent  lives  above  this  clay ; 


186         PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S   GRAVE 

'T  was  thus  exhaled  their  nobler  powers 
"Whose  types  ye  are,  unselfish  flowers ! 

For  thus  they  died  —  before  their  time  — 
In  youth's  glad  bloom,  in  manhood's  prime ; 
Yielding  their  lives  up,  one  and  all, 
Obedient  to  a  nation's  call, 

As  ye  do  now !     Oh,  frail,  sweet  things, 
How  pure  a  fragrance  round  you  clings ! 
So  round  the  memory  of  our  dead 
How  pure,  how  sweet  the  fragrance  shed ! 


PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S   GRAVE 

Lay  his  dear  ashes  where  ye  will,  — 
On  southern  slope  or  western  hill ; 
And  build  above  his  sacred  name 
Your  proudest  monuments  of  fame ; 
Yet  still  his  grave  our  hearts  shall  be ; 
His  monument,  a  people  free  ! 

Sing  sweet,  sing  low ; 

We  loved  him  so  ! 
His  grave  a  nation's  heart  shall  be  ; 
His  monument,  a  people  free ! 

Wave,  prairie  winds  !  above  his  sleep 
Your  mournful  dirges,  long  and  deep ; 
Proud  marble !  o'er  his  virtues  raise 


CHARLES  SUMNER  187 

The  tribute  of  your  glittering  praise ; 
Yet  still  his  grave  our  hearts  shall  be, 
His  monument,  a  people  free ! 

Sing  sweet,  sing  low ; 

We  loved  him  so  ! 
His  grave  a  nation's  heart  shall  be ; 
His  monument,  a  people  free  ! 

So  just,  so  merciful,  so  wise, 
Ye  well  may  shrine  him  where  he  lies  ; 
So  simply  good,  so  great  the  while, 
Ye  well  may  raise  the  marble  pile ; 
Yet  still  his  grave  our  hearts  shall  be, 
His  monument,  a  people  free ! 

Sing  sweet,  sing  low ; 

We  loved  him  so ! 
His  grave  a  nation's  heart  shall  be, 
His  monument,  a  people  free ! 


CHARLES   SUMNER 

The  friend  of  truth,  of  right,  of  man. 

His  human  symjDathy  o'erran 

The  common  limit,  to  embrace 

Within  its  bounds  the  human  race. 

He  felt  God's  kinship  coursing  through 
His  own  pure  veins,  and  straightway  knew 
All  men  his  kin,  of  every  hue. 


188  CHANNING 

He  knew  no  schism,  sect,  or  clan, 
His  love  to  God  was  love  to  man  ; 
His  creed,  purged  clean  of  human  lies, 
This  :   "  Mercy,  and  not  sacrifice." 

Ah,  bigot !  ask  no  more  if  he 
Were  sound  in  faith ;  go  thou  and  be 
As  sound  in  thy  humanity. 


CHANNING 

O  STRONG  iconoclast !  whence  came 

Your  Titan  stroke  ? 
Whence,  leaping  from  your  lips  of  flame, 

The  words  you  spoke  ? 

What  impulse  fired  you,  that  you  trod, 

Alone,  the  field, 
And  in  the  sight  of  man  and  God 

Reversed  the  shield,  — 

The  dreadful  shield  of  injured  law,  — 

Till,  in  the  place 
Of  wrath  and  doom,  the  people  saw 

A  Father's  face  ? 

O  Channing !  years  have  had  no  power 

That  sight  to  dim  : 
Our  eyes,  new-opened  from  that  hour. 

Still  turn  to  Him,  — 


TO   CHARLES  SUMNER  189 

Our  Father,  —  full  of  grace  and  truth, 

And  veiled  no  more 
In  creeds  unholy  and  uncouth 

Like  those  of  yore. 

So  truth  shall  live ;  so  error  die. 

Iconoclast ! 
The  gods  you  shivered  crumbling  lie ! 

Your  labors  last ! 


TO   CHARLES   SUMNER  ^ 

"We  thank  thee,  Sumner  !     Thou  hast  spoken  the 

word 
God  gave  to  thy  safe  keeping :  thou  hast  set 
Life,  death,  before  the  nation  ;  thou  hast  hurled 
Thy    single   pebble,   plucked   from   truth's   pure 

stream. 
Into  the  forehead  of  a  giant  wrong, 
And  it  doth  reel  and  tremble.     Men  may  doubt, 
But  the  keen  sword  of  right  shall  finish  well 
Thy  brave  beginning. 

Courage,  then,  true  soul! 
Not  vainly  hast  thou  spoken ;  angels  heard, 
And  shook  from  their  glad  harps  a  gush  of  joy 

1  In  recognition  of  his  speech,  "  Emancipation  our  Best  Weapon," 
before  the  Kepublican  State  Convention  at  Worcester,  October  1, 
1831 ;  published  in  "  The  Independent,''  and  inserted  as  "  a  tribute 
which  has  merit  of  its  own"  in  the  Appendix  to  the  Speech,  TOl.  vi. 
of  his'*  Works."' 


190  TO  CHARLES  SUMNER 

That  the  one  word  was  uttered  in  men's  ears, 
The  "  Oj)en  Sesame  "  by  which  alone 
True  freedom  and  true  peace  might  enter  in, 
Makinij  earth  like  to  heaven. 

Then  bide  thy  time. 
What  thou  hast  spoken  as  't  were  in  the  ear 
Shall  be  proclaimed  on  housetops.     God  locks  up 
In  His  safe  garners  every  seed  of  truth, 
Until  the  time  shall  come  to  cast  it  forth, 
Saying,  "  Be  fruitful,  multiply,  and  fill 
The  broad  earth,  till  it  shouts  its  harvest-home." 
His  purposes  are  sure ;  who  works  with  Him 
Need  fear  no  failure.     By  my  hopes  of  heaven, 
I  'd  rather  speak  one  word  for  truth  and  right, 
That  God  shall  have  and  treasure  up  for  use 
In  working  out  His  purposes  of  good. 
Than  clutch  the  title-deed  that  should  insure 
A  kingdom  to  my  keeping !  so,  in  faith, 
I  speak  my  simple  word,  and,  fearing  not. 
Commit  it  to  His  hands  whom  I  do  serve. 

And  thus  it  is,  0  friend,  that  I  have  dared 
To  send  thee  greeting  and  this  word  of  cheer : 
God  bless  thee,  Sumner,  and  all  souls  like  thine, 
Working  serene  and  patient  in  His  cause  ! 
God  give  thee  of  the  fruit  of  thine  own  hands, 
And  let  thine  own  works  praise  thee  in  the  gates 
Of  the  new  city,  whose  foundation-stones 
Thy  hands  are  laying,  though  men  see  it  not ! 


THE  LIBRARY  191 


THE   LIBRARY 

[From  the  Ode  read  at  the  dedication  of  "  The  Wallace  Library 
and  Art  Building,"  Fitchburg.] 

Ah,  what  a  treasury  of  wisdom  lies 

In  a  good  book !  and  who  would  not  be  wise  ? 

What  founts  of  sweetness  and  of  strength  well 

up 
From  its  deep  heart !  who  would  not  quaff  the 

cup? 
The  bees  must  know  where  honey-dews  abound ; 
Oh,  for  a  human  instinct  as  profound ! 
The   birds   must   fathom  where  the  south  land 

lies ; 
Oh,  for  an  intuition  half  as  wise ! 
For  what  are  intuitions,  but  the  soul's 
Blind  reachings  after  its  supremest  goals ; 
Divining  helps  whereby  it  may  essay 
A  stronger  sweep  along  its  upward  way ; 
Seeking  in  glad,  yet  reverential  mood. 
All  gentle  friendships  with  the  wise  and  good 
Of  every  nation,  age  :  and,  look  around  ! 
Shall  not  such  helps,  such    friendships  here  be 

found  ? 
O  sages,  poets,  who  shall  fill  this  place 
With  lavish  store  of  wisdom,  sweetness,  grace  ! 
Here  we  may  pay  our  homage  and  grow  wise 
And  glad  beneath  your  helpful  ministries. 
Here  we  may  offer  the  allegiance  meet 


192  THE  LIBRARY 

To  blind  old  Homer,  sit  at  Milton's  feet ; 
And  learn  of  both,  as  fails  the  outward  sight, 
To  trim  anew  the  spirit's  inner  light : 
May  sing  with  Chaucer,  walk  in  faerie  land 
With  sweet-lipped  Spenser ;  taking  Dante's  hand, 
Explore  the  dark  abysses  where,  denied 
All  hope  of  exit,  hapless  souls  abide ; 
May  summon  Shakespeare  —  in  himself  a  host  — 
King  Lear  and  sweet  Ophelia,  Hamlet's  ghost, 
Sad  Desdemona,  Egypt's  peerless  queen, 
Coming  and  going  on  the  shifting  scene ; 
Commune  with  Cowper,  walk  afield  with  Burns, 
And  listen  to  him  as  he  sings  by  turns. 
Of  luckless  Tam  O'Shanter  and  his  mare, 
Sweet  Highland  Mary  and  the  Brigs  of  Ayr ; 
Or  coming  down  to  later  times,  rehearse 
With  Tennyson  his  grand,  immortal  verse ; 
Talk  with  dogmatic,  scholarly  Carlyle, 
Uncouth,  but  grimly  honest  all  the  while ; 
Abide  with  our  own  Emerson,  or  go 
A-wooing  after  nature  with  Thoreau  ; 
Though,  for  that  matter,  all  the  poets  woo 
The  gentle  nymph,  —  and  our  immortal  few. 
Our  Whittier,  and  Longfellow,  and  Holmes, 
Bryant  and  Lowell,  —  whosoever  roams 
With  either,  sees  fair  nature  with  new  eyes. 
And  life  with  larger  possibilities. 


FITCHBURG  193 


FITCHBURG 


Nested  among  her  hills  she  lies,  — •' 

The  city  of  our  love ! 
Within  her  pleasant  homes  arise ; 
And  healthful  airs  and  happy  skies 

Float  peacefully  above. 

A  sturdy  few,  'mid  hopes  and  fears, 

Her  fair  foundations  set : 
And  looking  backward  now,  through  years 
Of  steady  gain,  how  small  appears 

Her  old  estate !  and  yet, 

She  dons  no  autocratic  airs. 

In  scorn  of  humbler  days, 
But  shapes  her  fortunes  and  affairs, 
To  match  the  civic  wreath  she  wears 

And  justify  her  bays. 

Honor  and  truth  her  old  renown  % 

Conservative  of  both, 
The  virtues  of  the  little  town 
She  holds  in  legacy,  to  crown 

The  city's  larger  growth. 

Nor  ease  nor  sloth  her  strength  despoil  : 

Her  peaceful  farmers  till, 
With  patient  thrift,  th'  outlying  soil. 


194  FITCHBURG 

Her  trained  mechanics  deftly  toil, 
Her  merchants  ply  their  skill ; 

Her  ponderous  engineries  supply 

A  thousand  waiting  needs  ; 
Her  wheels  revolve,  her  shuttles  fly,  — 
And  ever  where  the  prize  hangs  high, 

Her  foot,  unfaltering,  leads. 

Her  sympathies  are  large  and  sweet : 

And  when,  at  freedom's  call, 
The  war  flags  waved,  the  war  drums  beat. 
She  sprang,  responsive,  to  her  feet, 
And  freely  offered  all ! 

Alert  in  war,  she  emulates 

The  arts  of  peace,  as  well : 
Religion,  order,  guard  her  gates ; 
Wealth,  culture,  thrift,  like  happy  Fates, 

Her  destinies  foretell. 

So,  through  the  round  of  years,  she  keeps, 

Advancing  on  her  past : 
Her  old-time  vigor  never  sleeps,  — 
And  even  as  she  sows,  she  reaps ; 

God  bless  her  to  the  last ! 


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